


Castles Vandalized

by sarkosmos



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkosmos/pseuds/sarkosmos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was as if Merlin had been holding his breath since that day he bid Arthur goodbye. Bound by loyalty, weighed down by grief and isolated by guilt he waited alone for his king as the years shuffled on. Merlin began to lose faith in the dream he had fought so hard for, as well as hope in seeing his beloved friend again. But as the 21st century dawned, activism for those with magic burst into life, and finally he had a purpose beyond waiting. </p><p>The year is 2020. People with magic - labelled Arcanes - have finally been legally recognized and permitted to practice in the UK. But prejudice is strong, and rumours of Arcane terrorist groups threaten to criminalize sorcery once more. Merlin must help protect his kind and ward off those that would hurt their cause.</p><p>But he won't have to fight alone, as the time for waiting is over. The king is returning, and he's not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to apologize now for any Old English fail when it comes to Merlin's spells. I use the wiki for any that actually existed in show, but for anything else I'll be relying on the Internet (hence if it's more than one word I probably won't be putting them down).
> 
> "ádæle" is intended to be a command verb form of "separate" but if anyone has a better word/phrase for it I would be grateful to know what that is.
> 
> In between chapters will be short memoirs from the years Merlin spent alone, which I actually wrote first. I felt it was too important to simplify it with a paragraph. 
> 
> Arcanophobia is - apparently - the fear of magic.
> 
> Lastly, this probably goes without saying, but despite there being parallels I don't wish to trivialize any of the forms of discrimination encountered in the real world. 
> 
> Opening lyrics - "A Dustland Fairytale" by The Killers.

_And the decades disappear like sinking ships_  
 _But we persevere, God gives us hope_  
 _But we still fear what we don't know_

London, 2020

 

The Christmas lights were still up in Oxford Street; the glorified billboards had been unpleasant enough in December, but now that it was January they looked out of place as well as vaguely distasteful. Merlin barely had to use his own feet to propel himself forward, as the morning rush was strengthened by those indulging in the New Year sales. It was suffocating, but unfortunately it was the quickest route to his office. 

To make matters worse, there was a violent arc in the current caused by people trying to avoid a group of Arcane rights activists. They were handing out flyers in front of a makeshift cardboard booth, which was painted with the typical slogans, and tacked with photos of suffering Arcanes.

“...Trying to get Parliament to address the discrimination against Arcanes in this country. Arcanophobia is one of the leading causes of homelessness in Britain, and Arcanes belonging to racial and sexual minorities encounter far worse treatment. If you'd just take this leaflet, it can give you all sorts of information about...”

Merlin didn't glance up as he passed the booth, but he allowed one of the women to slip a leaflet into his hand before folding it into his pocket. It was merely out of politeness, for there could be nothing in it that was news to him. Being a charity officer for Arcane Protection Society UK (a name which he thought made them sound like a species of bird), he knew most of the Arcane activists in London from fundraisers, protests and street set-ups like this one. Normally, he would stop and chat or even join in, but the winter wind was biting at his face and although he wasn't due at work for a while, he was feeling restless. His black, wool peacoat and crimson scarf were flecked with snow, and in a moment of carelessness he had forgotten to bring his gloves with him. His fingers were red and stinging, and he rubbed them together in his pockets to try and generate warmth. 

Halting at the traffic lights, he looked downward and saw the pavement was decked red and purple with discarded leaflets, crushed into the filthy slush. They were printed by a group called Arcane Youth, which consisted of King's College students and whose members had volunteered for several APS events. The woman's voice floated to him over the heads of the pedestrians. 

“...It is still legal to dismiss an employee for not disclosing their Arcane status, and very few religious establishments will even hire registered Arcanes...”

He felt a mixture of guilt and anger at their wasted effort, and considered going back to the booth after all. 

_Merlin..._

He froze mid-turn, eyes wide and breath catching in his throat. The voice had been loud in his ears yet somehow felt remarkably distant, and in the silence that followed he wondered if he had imagined it. He waited for a few seconds, a statue in a heaving sea of people, and just as his heart sank it came again.

 _Merlin_.

It was stronger that time, more insistent, and seemed to vibrate through him. As the centuries dragged on, Merlin had started to worry that he might not recognize his king's voice when he heard it, but it was unmistakable. 

_Arthur_.

“Wake up, mate.” Someone slammed into him as they tried to hurry across the road, but Merlin didn't even consider responding. He pushed his way through the surge of people, moving toward the mouth of the Underground station as fast as the crowd would allow. He didn't have time to consider work or anything else at that moment; his heart was thudding in his chest, and abruptly he felt more alive than he had in decades. There was a spark of hope, the strength of which he had long stopped believing was possible. Somehow, he knew that this was _it_. 

The waiting was over.

*

Merlin drummed his fingers impatiently against the side of the carriage, earning him a dirty look from the businessman seated opposite.

Several times, he had considered using his magic to speed up the train, but desperate as he was, he didn't want to inflict carnage on his innocent fellow passengers. Furthermore, if anyone on the train noticed him using magic, or it was caught on CCTV footage, he would most likely be arrested. Martin Emerson – which, according to his current legal documents, was his name – was a registered Arcane, which was the politically correct term for one born with magic. He hated being on a list in any capacity, but being a vocal member of APS made it unavoidable. When so many of his fellow activists had come out of the potions cupboard, as it were, he felt it would be cowardice to remain hidden. 

He had waited hundreds of years to practice magic without the threat of execution, but now that the opportunity was here he felt somewhat let down. Although it was not illegal in the United Kingdom, it was heavily regulated (and discouraged) and prejudice was widespread. Merlin had occasionally come home to graffiti on the front door of his ground floor flat, and – on one occasion - a broken window. The Government was constantly threatening to outlaw sorcery once more, and while magic had been officially declared legal in 2010 after nearly a decade of protests and awareness projects, no concrete laws had been constructed concerning the nature and restrictions of its practice. 

Anti-Arcane groups and politicians engaged in fear-mongering by warning of Arcane terrorist organizations, and biased documentaries on Arcane behaviour was not uncommon. Law enforcement were often happy to blame Arcanes for unsolved crimes, and there was a great deal of arcanophobia (or arcaneism, if you liked) amongst officers. However, police brutality against Arcanes was rare, for fear of retaliation. The truth was that the country relied on the Arcanes employed in the penal system and police force to control Arcane criminals. It was the primary obstacle faced when trying to ban magic, and it was something of an embarrassment. 

Secrets were being kept on both sides. Strictly speaking, registration was mandatory and any unregistered Arcanes practising magic faced a fine at least and a small jail sentence at most (magic that broke other laws naturally incurred a stronger penalty). But as far as the law was concerned, there was no humane way to be certain whether or not an individual was an Arcane. Still, according to legend, a potion with such a function might have been refined in the late 18th century, the recipe known to a select few. There was something of an unspoken rule against sharing this information with non-Arcanes, lest it inspire a literal witch-hunt, and even the most law-abiding Arcanes upheld it. 

Merlin curled his fingers into his jeans in an attempt to keep them still. He was reminded of the same journey he had made in the early days of the Second World War, and the crippling disappointment it resulted in. Even when he returned home from the fighting - battle-scarred and haunted by twice as many ghosts as before – he hadn't been able to bring himself to visit Avalon for another sixty-five years. He had been voluntarily homeless at the time, living under the guise of an old man and walking cross-country, occasionally squatting in empty, leaking buildings under clouded skies. For a while he had relished the ability to stop pretending he was a young man, and lost himself in the aching bones and sunken skin that still couldn't betray his true age. It had been something of an impulse to pass the burial site, and he had told himself at the time that he expected nothing, that it was merely to pay respects. But when he had passed the monument, he felt the ache of grief again, like an old war injury.

He tugged the red iPod nano from his bag, surface nicked and scratched from ill care, and began to painstakingly untangle the earphones. His fingers shook slightly as he pushed the buds into his ears, and he leant back, head tilting toward the window as the song started up. He barely listened to it, eyes fixed on the rolling landscape as it flickered past, with Arthur's last words buzzing in his brain. 

_I swear,_ Merlin thought, _I'd cook your meals and run your baths. I'd do whatever ridiculous errand you sent me on. I'd never leave your side again. Just_ please _be there_.

*

An hour's drive from Avalon, Merlin gave in and stole a blue Ford Fiesta from a Tesco car park. The sunlight was starting to drain out of the sky, and along the way he phoned the APS office and babbled something about a family emergency and losing track of the time. He wasn't sure they believed him, but he didn't typically let them down and sounded vaguely hysterical, so Kavindra seemed to let it slide. She told him to get some rest and come in the day after tomorrow. The truth was, he wouldn't really have cared had they fired him on the spot. 

“Hell, if Arthur's not there, I'll probably drive straight into traffic anyway,” he mumbled to the empty car. He followed it up with an awkward chuckle, but he honestly didn't know how he would react if it was another dead end. He had finally managed to adjust to civilian life – there were people he called friends, and he rented a flat he had bothered to furnish, he had a job and he paid bills. He had stopped relying on disguises, and wore his own face, as it would have been when he was a young man. Outwardly, he was a complete, respectable person, or respectable as one considered an Arcane to be. But hearing Arthur's voice had yanked him out his routine without thought, and if it turned out to be some sort of cruel joke, he feared what that would make of him. As it was, he was shocked he hadn't ended up as one of those old people who mumbled into rubbish bins in public parks.

*

At 4:27pm, Merlin pulled over just down the road from the site. He had been travelling for hours, and he needed the air to clear his head and lungs. He was also stalling slightly, stomach churning from anxiety and the threat of getting his hope extinguished once more. The more he bided his time, the longer he could cling to the possibility of seeing Arthur's face.

He slammed the car door, glancing up and down the road to check for cars before beginning a slow walk. In the distance he could already see the remains on the hill, an ugly stump compared to the imposing tower it had once been. As he drew closer, he felt himself immersed in a powerful energy. His body tingled, and a pleasant, electric feeling coursed through him. There had always been a faint current around Avalon, but now the air practically sizzled with it.

As he reached the gap in the bushes, he saw a heavy mist weaving its way across the field that had replaced the lake. Suddenly overwhelmed, and frightened by something he couldn't really specify, Merlin hesitated on the edge, hands flexing at his side. He sucked in a breath, and shook his arms, loosening his muscles. 

_Come on, Merlin. This is the moment you've been waiting for, and you're hovering there like an idiot?_

He took a few steps forward onto the grass, raised a hand, and gently exhaled. “ _Ádæle_ ,” he whispered. The mist began to disperse, and he gingerly moved a little further. The ground was hard but slippery from the frost, and he skidded. Righting himself, he squinted into the milky veil, praying for any signs of life. Panic threatened to bubble up inside him, and he tried to concentrate on continuing the spell. Suddenly, he made out a dark shape directly opposite him, just a few metres away. His heart thudded in his chest and his lips trembled as he said, “A-Arthur?”

At last the mist lifted completely, and he made a sound that could have been a gasp or a cry.

“Merlin?”

The former king of Camelot looked utterly bewildered, eyes darting here and there. Although he seemed exactly the same age as the day he died, the wound from Mordred's sword was missing, and his armour and chain-mail was as clean as if Merlin had just polished it. His hair wasn't filled with dirt or sweat and his face was washed, yet he was obviously tired and a little pale. However, when he recognized his manservant, a smile lit up his features that made Merlin so happy he almost felt sick with it. He let out a small laugh, tears streaming down his cheeks. It was a few seconds before he found his voice.

“Hello Sire,” he managed, struggling not to break into full-blown sobs. “You took your time.” 

Arthur opened his mouth, clearly about to respond with something sarcastic, when he staggered slightly. Merlin rushed forward just in time for Arthur to fall into his arms. He blinked slowly for a moment, head nodding, then looked up at Merlin. “I'm so tired,” he murmured, as if confused by that revelation, and rested his head against Merlin's shoulder. 

“Haven't you slept long enough?” Merlin teased. The last time he had held Arthur like this, the king had been dying. Now, despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes sparkled with life. Merlin extracted one of his hands and touched Arthur's cheek. His skin was warm, and his chest rose and fell with healthy breaths. Merlin honestly couldn't believe it was happening, that he was actually looking into those familiar blue eyes again, and for a few moments he just gazed down into them. 

“Merlin,” Arthur began, “much as I'd _love_ to hang around my grave all day, do you think maybe you could find me somewhere to rest?” His tone was chiding, but his smile was cheeky, and Merlin felt his chest swell. 

“Making demands already.” He tutted, and pulled one of Arthur's arms over his shoulder as he manoeuvred them to the roadside. “I should never have come to get you.”

“ _I_ thought I was being uncharacteristically...” Arthur trailed off, and Merlin abruptly found himself supporting his entire weight. His legs nearly buckled, and he halted to check on Arthur, only to see that he had passed out. Merlin hoped it was anything to worry about, after all, resurrection probably was quite exhausting. It would be too much hassle to take Arthur back to London tonight, so the first order of business was getting him to a hotel. There Arthur could recuperate, and Merlin could feed him as well as treat him, were it necessary. Ensuring they were alone on the road, he summoned the car using magic, and it rolled to a gradual stop in front of them. He set Arthur down in the back seat, hand resting on his shoulder and eyes lingering on him for a moment before going to sit behind the wheel.

 

Merlin succeeded in finding a vacancy at a family-run guest house a few miles out, and after managing to rouse Arthur for a few seconds, Merlin convinced the owner – Mr. Ashfield, a balding man in a forest green, cable-knit jumper - that he was simply tipsy from a themed party and was not in fact under the influence of anything more illicit. 

Ashfield looked pointedly at the clock, which showed it was just past five, and raised an eyebrow. “Celebrating on Japanese time, were you?” he asked, earning an unflattering, awkward laugh from Merlin. Ashfield shook his head but said nothing more - he gave the impression of someone who had had a long day and wasn't in the frame of mind to pick battles. 

The building had probably been constructed in about 1910, and parts of it groaned with age. The carpets were nicely vacuumed and shampooed, but they were unsightly floral affairs, and the steps squeaked on the wooden staircase, which left a square gap that you could peer into the foyer through. The faded wallpaper – also floral, naturally - was decked with dull, painted seascapes and photographs of relatives which were probably too distant for the current owners to recall. Their room had a double bed with – luckily - an en suite bathroom, and overlooked the winter-ravaged garden. Unfortunately, it was on the top floor and there was no lift, so getting Arthur up the stairs had been a bit of a chore. He kept tottering and had threatened to plunge over the balustrade once or twice. 

After the usual prattle about check-out time, where the tea was kept, and how to use the small, plasma TV (“If you just switch on the... well, you know how to work a telly, I'm sure.”) Mr. Ashfield had backed out of the door, sparing them one last suspicious glance. It was a decent room for the purpose it served; the walls were painted in pale peach, and there were a few small watercolours of the local area that – upon later inspection – Merlin found were made by members of the Ashfield family tree. Aside from the television and the bed (which had a floral duvet – Merlin was beginning to wonder if bees were the average clientèle) the only furniture was the bedside table, a small, pine wardrobe with a safe at the bottom, a green wicker chair and a round, glass coffee table with a couple of coasters. 

Merlin had no change of clothes for Arthur, so he stripped him to his underclothes and tucked him in bed. After rooting out the tea things, Merlin made himself a cup and collapsed into the wicker chair, limbs splayed like a ragdoll. He didn't touch his drink, just let the cup warm his fingers as he stared at Arthur in silent disbelief. Were it not for the scrutiny from Ashfield, he might seriously have wondered if he was imagining the man sleeping in the bed. Hell, maybe it was all an elaborate hallucination and he had finally gone off the deep end. 

He set down his cup and went over to Arthur, eyes roaming over his face for a moment, before reaching down and brushing the blonde fringe away from his eyes. He felt Arthur's breath on his fingers as he pulled his hand back, and he smiled.

If it was a hallucination, Merlin didn't care, so long as Arthur continued to be part of it.

*

Several hours later, Merlin was woken by something he never thought he would hear again – Arthur's pestering.

The room was dark, and he realised he had fallen asleep on the carpet beside Arthur's head. He glanced up, disorientated, to find Arthur peering down at him in a curious way. The top of his head was washed orange from the street-light that was shining through the open curtains, and he seemed to be suppressing a smile with some effort. 

“What are you doing down there?” 

Merlin rubbed his eyes, getting to his feet in a somewhat unsteady fashion. “No ante-rooms for servants here,” he mumbled, “and your stupid big body took up all the space.”

“Where is here any-- _dgah_!” Arthur made a hilarious noise of dismay as Merlin flicked the lamp on. “What was _that_?!” 

“I just switched the light on,” Merlin replied, and turned round to find Arthur pressed back against the headboard, eyes wide as saucers. Merlin had to stifle a laugh – he looked like he had just been chucked off a horse. 

“Did... did you use magic?” Arthur asked, raising a hand to cover his face, “it's so _bright_. Where is it coming from?” 

“What? No, I just...” Merlin trailed off, mouth opening in an 'O' of comprehension. In all the fuss, he had completely forgotten he would be exposing Arthur to centuries of alarming technological developments. He perched on the edge of the bed, and Arthur reluctantly lowered his hand. Merlin adopted a sombre expression, his tone gentle to the point of condescending. “It's electricity.”

Arthur looked at him as if he had just suggested introducing an element of dance to the morning hunt. “Elett... what?” Merlin began to smirk and then attempted to hide it by scratching the corner of his mouth.

“It's a sort of-” he waved his arms in a circular manner, trying to put it as simply as possible, “-power, that moves and... and powers things? I'm not explaining this very well, am I?” Arthur shook his head, looking vaguely disgusted. “It's a force, a non-magical force, that has been harnessed to make things work efficiently, and you can cook and light things and you don't need fire. And you can use it to move things without manpower or horses.”

Arthur snorted and began massaging his temples. “I may have completely underestimated your insane sense of humour, Merlin. Just- You seriously expect me to believe that I'm barely gone a year, and suddenly there's some special god-like force that moves things but has nothing to do with sorcery? And what is with this _room_? It looks like Gwaine arranged it after a night at the tavern, I don't even understand what's _happening_ in here--”

“Wait,” Merlin said, holding out a hand to silence him. “How long did you say you had been gone?”

“About...” Arthur made a vague face and shrugged, “yes, a year? Couple of months over maybe, why? What's wrong?” The colour had drained from Merlin's face, and he felt sick. Suddenly, there didn't seem to be enough air. Arthur placed a hand on his arm and he flinched. “Merlin.” His tone was serious now, disturbed by whatever he saw in Merlin's features, but Merlin couldn't seem to speak, and in the silence Arthur seemed to catch on. “Merlin... Merlin, how long have I been gone?” 

*

“You've got to be joking.”

“I'm not.”

“But that's... I mean, I can't have been gone that long. It didn't _feel_ that long. It's absurd.”

They were side by side on the bed, Merlin on top of the duvet and Arthur still beneath it, both of them sat upright enough that their heads almost cleared the headboard. Arthur stared off in the direction of the far wall, eyes somewhat glazed, and Merlin looked down at his lap, nervously picking a hangnail. He laughed in a hollow way.

“Trust me, Arthur, it... It was definitely that long.”

There were a few seconds of heavy silence, and then Arthur spoke again, his voice weak.

“So, it's just you and me. And everyone else is...” He trailed off, swallowing hard. Merlin glanced up, and the mixture of fear and sadness on Arthur's face made him feel like he had been punched in the stomach.

“Yes,” Merlin whispered, as if saying it quietly enough meant that it wouldn't hurt either of them. 

Arthur opened his mouth, lips trembling as he visibly forced himself to ask: “Guinevere?” Reluctantly, Merlin shook his head. Arthur wasn't looking right at him, but he reacted all the same. He exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath. Perhaps he had. Merlin turned away, nausea washing over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment it was quiet, save for Arthur's heavy breathing. 

“Merlin.” Arthur's voice was unsteady, and it took all of Merlin's willpower to look at him. He wished he hadn't. Not since Uther's death had Arthur looked this vulnerable, and Merlin felt horribly responsible for it. “If this is a joke, or-” Arthur stopped, and took a deep breath, shaking his head, “-or anything. Please, tell me now.” His eyes were pleading, the tiniest shred of hope left in them. He was asking Merlin to take it all back, Merlin could see it, and he hated the universe, hated himself, for the fact that he couldn't. If he could make it so, he would be in Camelot, hiding his magic, doing pointless chores and saving Arthur's life without taking the credit, because all that would be so much better than this.

_Why me? Why do I have to be the one to hurt him this way?_

He took a deep breath, holding back the tears that wanted to come. They could wait, but delivering this blow could not. He had to say it, had to be brave for Arthur as always, and he could fall apart later. The longer he hesitated, the worse it would be. That was what he told himself.

“I wouldn't joke about something like this,” he replied. Arthur studied his face for a moment, searching for any hint of a lie, probably praying for one. Finding nothing, his face fell and he gasped as if he had been struck unexpectedly. The gasp turned into a sob, before he struggled to collect himself somewhat.

“Alone,” he choked out, “I want to be alone.” Desperate, Merlin reached for his shoulder.

“Arthur-” he began, but his hand was knocked away, and he edged back slightly. 

“You heard what I said,” Arthur snapped, before the anger abruptly faded into grief again. Merlin watched him for a few seconds, wanting so badly to help him but not knowing how, before he slid carefully off of the bed and headed for the door. Leaving Arthur alone went against every instinct he had – he could run off or electrocute himself, or goodness knows what, but Merlin didn't really have a choice. Arthur dealt with bad news poorly at the best of times, but this was a completely different level of pain. Neither words nor magic could heal it, and for Merlin, being there and knowing he could do absolutely nothing about it, was more than he could stand. He had tried, yet Arthur didn't want him right now. 

“I'll be back later,” he muttered, and when Arthur said nothing, he hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Merlin had forgotten to grab his coat on the way out, and the cold air was sharp when he stepped onto the street, but he barely acknowledged it. In a daze, he got in the stolen Ford and began to drive, not knowing where he was going but motivated by the desire to escape. Very soon he realized that it was impossible, that what troubled him could not be left behind. Arthur would still be in that hotel room, broken, their loved ones would still be dead, and he would still have waited more than a thousand years only to feel more isolated. 

He stopped the car in a side road, and for a moment, he simply sat as the anger and misery began to spread through him. When his hands began to shake, he gripped the wheel, clenching them before pulling them back and slamming them hard against the centre. 

_It wasn't supposed to be like this. It isn't fair._

He did it several times with increasing force, until finally he gave up and collapsed forward, body heaving as he sobbed.


	2. INTERLUDE I - 1984

INTERLUDE I  
Leytonstone, England, 1984

“Are you _sure_ the heating's not working?”

It was thirty-six years until Arthur rose from Avalon, and the rooms were warmer than they should have been. This fact had not escaped the notice of Enid, one of three university students Merlin shared a 1930s-built, white terraced house with. The central heating was officially dysfunctional, something the four of them had been aware of since they moved in six months previously. However, Merlin had managed to discreetly keep the temperature bearable without raising suspicion - until now. The chill was so unpleasant that he thought it worth the risk.

“I know, it feels surprisingly warm, doesn't it?” he said, feigning confusion. Enid frowned, pressing her palm against the radiator for a moment. 

Then to Merlin's relief, she seemed to dismiss the anomaly and went to kneel in front of the television, floorboards creaking underneath her feet. Enid was very into conserving energy – something Merlin, Andrew and Vanya didn't argue with, considering their income – and subsequently all lights were off and all appliances (with the exception of the fridge) unplugged in every room, save this one. A lamp with a crooked yellow shade was switched on in the corner by the door, the only other light source being the glow of the screen. It washed Enid in blue as she rooted through their videotape collection. 

It was the first time in centuries that Merlin had lived with others by choice. The house wasn't too bad, defective heating notwithstanding, although it didn't have the feel of a home. The floors were cracked tiles and bare wooden planks, save for the dirty abstract rug in the living room. The wind made unsettling noises in the chimney, and the pipes occasionally clanked as if they were too old and tired to bother anymore. The walls were either covered in peeling wallpaper or uneven streaks of white paint, and there was a crack in the glass pane on the back door. Still, Merlin knew from experience that it could have been much, much worse (which made it hard to tolerate the others' complaints over their quality of life), and he did have a room to himself. 

Andrew and Vanya were bar-hopping with students from various universities, and probably wouldn't be back until early the next day. They had invited him out, as they always did, but much as he liked the boys, Merlin avoided drinking. In the past he had developed a habit of drowning his sorrows, first in the 1550s and again in the first few years after WWI. Now, he was virtually teetotal, telling himself that if Arthur came back (he no longer said 'when'), an alcoholic would be of no use to him. Also, he simply preferred Enid's company. She was a proud feminist, and had a sharp and sometimes shocking sense of humour. She also had an affinity for candid speaking that Merlin thought Gwen would have loved.

She was certainly pretty too, with dark skin and hair (which she wore short, to her chin), courtesy of her Spanish mother. There was nothing romantic between herself and Merlin, but from time to time they shared their bodies with each other, and Merlin knew they both appreciated the unspoken truth – it was just a bit of fun. The movie went unnoticed halfway through, and afterwards Enid disentangled herself to fetch a cigarette from her duffel bag on the floor, which was decked in badges for various causes that glinted like dragon scales. She stood there naked, casually smoking, as if waiting for a train. The scent of marijuana made Merlin feel heady, but not in an unpleasant way. 

“You'll get cold,” he murmured, tugging the blanket off the back of the sofa and drawing it over his body. Putting his clothes back on required too much effort, and he was considering taking a bath before bed anyway. For a few seconds, Enid didn't appear to have heard him, then she came and settled beside him, pulling the blanket to her chin. They lay without moving, without words, and Merlin was beginning to nod off when she broke the silence.

“What will you do when we're gone?” she asked. The question took Merlin by surprise, and he turned his head although he couldn't see her face from that angle.

“What?”

“When the three of us move out.” Enid plucked at a loose thread on the blanket, her other hand holding the joint aloft. “You're smart, smarter than you like people to think, and you have the responsibility of someone twice your age.” Merlin resisted snorting at the underestimation. “But it's like you're in stasis. Everyone else is living and you're just... observing. Why don't you...” she swept her arms like she was trying to waft the cobwebs out of him, and several fragments of ash drifted to the carpet. “Why don't you _do_ something?” She punctuated the statement with a drag of the joint. 

Merlin shifted his body slightly, as if he could dislodge the query from the air that way. “You could ask that of plenty of people our age,” he deflected.

“I'm asking you,” Enid responded, having none of it. 

Merlin was forced to weigh the question properly; it's one he had asked himself many times over the centuries, but settled on no single answer. He had reasoned that Arthur could come any day, that he had to be ready to greet him at the drop of a hat so there was no point planting himself in a new life when he would have to tug up the roots later. He had reasoned that he could never truly belong to a world that didn't have Arthur in it, and living day to day would be like having the largest piece of furniture taken from a room and pretending he didn't notice the space. So what was the point in trying?

At the same time, however, he recognized that no matter how greatly he craved a “normal” lifestyle, a sick fear existed inside him of having no further purpose in life beyond getting out of bed in the morning and going to work. When Arthur was alive, Merlin had lamented the burden of his destiny, fulfilling his duty day after day with no credit taken. But in the solitude since Arthur's death, the conviction of his importance had been almost his sole comfort. 

“I can't be satisfied with just anything,” Merlin answered finally, thinking he might as well be honest as he could. “I'm young, yes, but I'm... Too set in my ways, I guess. I can't pretend I want to be something I don't, just to fill the time. When I get what it is I'm waiting for, I'll make up for what was wasted.” 

Enid watched the cotton unravel, brows knotted in disproportionate concentration. “And what if the thing you're waiting for never arrives?”

The question seemed to hit the air with an audible thump.

It wasn't that Merlin hadn't considered that prospect before, but hearing it aloud – from someone else's lips – was so horrific, so impossible to dismiss that it took a moment to find his voice again. When he did, it crackled like old paper. 

“It will. It has to.”

“But _if_ it doesn't?” Enid pressed, tugging at him like the threads of the blanket. “You're too intelligent to gamble your life on a fantasy, and you've too much potential to waste it on waiting for-”

“It's not a _fantasy_ ,” Merlin snapped, but his tone was defensive and all certainty was gone. Enid was quite for a moment, letting the wave of anger pass them. 

“I say this as a friend,” she continued, her voice soft, as if coaxing an animal, “we all have dreams, things we want, but whether they're fulfilled or not they don't just arrive like buses. You have to get up and go out, and build your life. You have to do some of the work, or you probably wouldn't even know what to do with it when it came. You have to lay your own tracks.” 

Merlin frowned, considering that for a moment. “Lay my own tracks?”

“Yes.”

“So dreams... aren't like buses, they're like trains?” He smirked slightly around the edges of his words. Enid glanced down at the joint as if directly blaming it for any fault in her coherency.

“Yes,” she replied, with somewhat forced conviction. “They're often late, and they don't always take you precisely where you want to go but--”

“But there's usually a newspaper left for you to read?” Merlin finished.

“It's not an airtight metaphor,” Enid answered with a grin, and they both started giggling.

*

Thirty-four years later, Merlin will recognize Enid at a fundraiser for the Arcane Protection Society. He will approach her, protected by an appearance she will not recognize, and talk to her for almost an hour about protests and developments in Arcane rights. For the first time in a long time, he will experience the joy of being reunited with an old friend, even if he cannot admit his identity. 

Towards the end of their conversation, he will ask her honestly if she ever feared Arcanes.

“Nah, not really. I had a housemate in uni that was a closeted Arcane, and he was one of the nicest guys I ever met.” 

Merlin will be too shocked to speak for a moment, the enormity of it settling on him. “But... if he was closeted, how did you know?”

Enid's eyes will lower for a moment and she will smile as if recalling something fond. “Our house was always absurdly warm in winter.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the confusion over chapter numbers. There isn't a way to stop it saying "chapter" before the Interludes. But I'm sure you figured it out, you're smart people.

_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_   
_Cause, oh, that gave me such a fright_   
_But I will hold on as long as you like_   
_Just promise me that we'll be alright_

_But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from you  
And we'll live a long life_

 

Chapter Two

Merlin managed to kill an hour before returning to the hotel; he drove aimlessly around the nearby streets for a while, watching people amble home from the pub and listening to late-night jazz radio. It wasn't his sort of music, but he couldn't be bothered to change the station, and it filled the silence. At some point it began to snow, but the piles of dirty slush on the road and pavement prevented it from settling nicely, and the street-lights bled into each other as the flakes melted on the windscreen. Over the centuries, Merlin had spent many winters without shelter, so he and snow did not have a harmonious relationship. Just looking at it made him shiver.  
  
He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and Arthur was probably starving, so he stopped off at the local KFC, managing to catch it a few minutes before closing time. Pausing for a moment outside, he used his magic to change the colour of the car and the number plate. Slim though the chances may have been, he didn't fancy getting locked up for vehicle theft that night. He bought one of the large buckets and nibbled on fries as he drove back, barely tasting them. As he stopped for a red light, a group of drunk teenagers staggered past, laughing, and Merlin felt strangely envious of them.  
  
As he climbed the staircase, a reluctance began to envelope him and weigh him down. He was afraid to see Arthur, afraid that he might be angry, that he might hold him personally responsible for the loss he was now coping with. But most of all, Merlin was afraid that the grief over Guinevere, their friends, and their people, might snuff out everything that he loved about Arthur. The man had always sought strength and motivation from his loved ones, from his subjects, but without them... Who would he turn to? What was a king without his kingdom?

Merlin stopped in front of their door, the food warming his hip and the bottle of Pepsi chilling his fingers as he pondered. Had he given enough thought to what this would do to Arthur? Had he been arrogant, to think that he would be enough? That yes, Arthur would suffer at first, but with time Merlin could fill the gaps left behind? Certainly he had protected Arthur, cared for him, stood by him in times of need. He had offered him advice, made sacrifices for him, saved their home and the people they loved. But most of those things were still unknown to Arthur, and all the same, Arthur would have no wife beside him in bed, no knights – his brothers – to fight, hunt and laugh with. He could no longer go down into the market place and see the faces of the people he kept safe, the people he gave his life to serve.

As Merlin was a servant of Arthur, Arthur was a servant of his people, and Merlin knew better than anyone what it meant to be robbed of one's purpose. He also questioned now, whether Arthur could fill the gaps in _his_ life the way he had expected him to. Merlin had comforted himself with the knowledge that, so long as he had Arthur, his own grief would be easier to ignore. But what if he was wrong?

Steeling himself, Merlin reached up and knocked on the door. It was a while before there was any response, and he was about to knock again when suddenly the door opened a crack. Arthur said nothing, but satisfied that it was Merlin he pulled it the rest of the way before going to sit on the bed once more. Merlin wondered if he had moved from the bed since he left.

“Were you asleep?” Merlin asked, kicking the door closed and cloaking them in darkness. Arthur had apparently managed to switch the lamp off.

“No,” Arthur answered after a moment, voice toneless. “But that... thing was giving me a headache.” Merlin opened his mouth, wanting to say something easy, something funny, to lighten the mood, but he couldn't think of anything. Carefully, he found his way to the coffee table and set down the food and Pepsi, then glanced round at the dark room, feeling a bit silly.

“Do you think we could... it's just that I got us some food and we won't be able to see what we're doing.” There was a pause, and then a sigh, and he saw the vague shape of Arthur fumbling with the light. “Do you want me to-”

“No, I can _do_ it, Merlin,” Arthur mumbled impatiently. Merlin pressed his lips together, trying to tell himself that this would pass, that Arthur needed time. It would be okay, eventually.

The lamp came on, and Merlin could see that Arthur's eyes – although dry now - were red and puffy. He turned away quickly before Arthur noticed him staring, and began laying out the chicken and fries. Taking a piece, he took the first bite delicately but then ended up almost inhaling it. A few seconds later, the bed creaked, and Arthur appeared beside him.

“What is that?”

Merlin held up a drumstick. “Surely you remember what chicken is?” Arthur glared at him.

“I meant these.” He lifted up a handful of fries, seemingly sceptical.

“It's potato,” Merlin replied, “but like this it's called fries. Or chips.” Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.

“Potato?”

Merlin was really beginning to feel his age.

*

After his initial trepidation, and with some encouragement, Arthur took to the food with enthusiasm (although he refused to drink the Pepsi) and the two of them ate in silence for a while. When he had finished his share, Arthur stared out of the window from his place on the bed, deep in thought. He reminded Merlin of the portraits of kings that followed him – proud and stoic, fair, but with the shadows of his experiences in his eyes and in the lines of his face. He was trying to hold himself together, and hard as it was for Merlin to see him cry and break down, he knew Arthur well enough that he could see the pain plainly. He didn't want Arthur to put a brave face on, he didn't want to be shut out. He wanted to be allowed to comfort him.

 _Let me in_. What he actually said was, “do you want a bath?”

Arthur looked at him as if he had posed some deep, philosophical question. “Yes, all right.”

 

Arthur undressed while Merlin knelt beside the bathtub, attempting to recreate the temperature Arthur had always favoured. It was strange how easily it came to him, and how comforting it was to be doing tasks like that again. Of course, it required a lot less effort this time around.

“There's running water?” Arthur asked, suddenly appearing naked in the doorway. Merlin nodded, and Arthur leant over and dipped his fingers in the water, cautiously, before making a hiss of pain and snatching them back. “That will take my skin off.”

“I haven't put enough cold in yet!” Merlin retorted, “you can't wait two seconds, can you?” Arthur folded his arms and perched on the closed toilet lid, giving it a curious glance as he did so.

“It's not my fault you're so slow. Clearly no advance in water distribution can improve that.” Merlin shot him a look, but the banter made him feel optimistic.

“It's ready,” he said, standing up and rolling his sleeves back down. “The soap's there if you want it.” Arthur got up and gingerly dipped his toe in. Satisfied that it wouldn't incinerate him, he climbed in properly, sighing as the water lapped against his chest. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment he seemed genuinely relaxed. Merlin smiled at the small victory, and headed back into the main room to deal with the empty food containers, leaving the door half open.

A few minutes later, Arthur's voice floated in. “Merlin?” It was gentle, closer to a request than a demand. Merlin pushed into the bathroom, and found Arthur looking pensive, one of his hands buried in his wet hair. Despite his obvious distress, Merlin was taken aback by how handsome he looked. Even after all this time, Arthur's beauty had a significant impression on him.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Why did I come back?” Arthur murmured, “why, when all of the people we loved were allowed to rest in peace, was I brought back? Why-” He took a sharp breath. “Why is it me that gets a second chance at life?”

 _He feels guilty_ , Merlin realized with horror, _he's not just grieving or overwhelmed by the responsibility. He feels guilty for being alive when they're not._

“I was just told, that when you were needed again, you would return,” he replied, “you have a great purpose, Arthur, that went beyond your time. None of it is your fault, it's just... your destiny.”

“Destiny,” Arthur muttered. “And needed by whom?” He looked up at Merlin, anger flushing his face again. “All the people that I was responsible for, they're dead. What can I do for them now?” He grabbed one of the small, hotel-issued bottles of shampoo off the side of the tub and brandished it at Merlin. “What's this for?”

“Washing your hair,” Merlin answered quietly, doing an awkward little motion at his own head. Arthur tried to unscrew the bottle, but he was clumsy with frustration and his hands were wet, so he kept dropping it in the water. Wordlessly, Merlin fished it out and opened it himself. “Close your eyes.” Arthur looked as though he might protest, but then did as he was told. Merlin poured some of the shampoo into his palm and then began to massage it into Arthur's hair. After a moment, he seemed to soften slightly, leaning back into Merlin's touch.

“You are the once and future king,” Merlin said gently, “this isn't just about the people of Camelot. It's about all the lost and the defenceless, the weak and the unfortunate. Those who can't fight for themselves, and those who need a leader. Those values that you fought for still exist. You know how to unite people, you know how to protect them. And it's my job to help you do that, to keep _you_ safe.” He washed the soap out of Arthur's hair slowly, relishing the opportunity to be close to him again, to have the physical proof in his hands that Arthur was alive. “I can't bring back the people you lost – that _we_ lost – but I can do what I always do, and that's be by your side.” Tears had come to his eyes without him realizing, and was grateful that Arthur's were still closed. “Give me a shout if you need anything else,” he said, moving quickly out of the room.

*

Merlin had stripped down to his undershirt and boxers (it was a cold night, but he hated the sensation of sleeping in jeans) and was pulling back the covers when Arthur came in, dried and dressed. _All by himself? Miracles do happen._

“Merlin...” he began, sounding vaguely stern.

“I'm not sleeping on the floor again,” Merlin interrupted, “you can learn to share.”

“No, that's not what I was going to say. It's that I... was barely conscious when you found me, but I could have sworn you said something about me taking my time. What did you mean?”

Merlin froze, curses running through his head. Privately, he had always been somewhat proud of the length of time he had waited, but now he felt somewhat embarrassed to admit it. He shrugged, refusing to look at Arthur. “Oh nothing, just, you know... You were hanging about and it was bloody cold.” It wasn't even a good lie, and it hung awkwardly in the ensuing silence.

“That wasn't it. Merlin... Look at me,” he said softly. Merlin sighed, and hesitantly lifted his head. Arthur's expression was serious, but there was a gentleness in his eyes. “Have you been waiting this _whole time_?”

Merlin let out a nervous laugh. “Well, I didn't just sit around doing nothing. We've been at war, you know. There was the Plague. There was a fire. I've been kept very busy.” He smiled stupidly, but Arthur did not echo his mood.

“You never died. Everyone else... But you've been alive for all these years, alone?” He looked horrified. “And what for, so you could be here when I got back?”

“Well it's a good job I was!” Merlin joked hurriedly, not wanting to be responsible for even more of Arthur's guilt. “Couldn't even run your own bath.”

“This isn't funny, Merlin,” Arthur replied sharply, “it's...” He shoved a hand through his hair, exasperated, as he moved across the room. “It's madness. To make someone go through that.”

“Hey, it was my choice!” Merlin snapped, suddenly feeling angry and not sure why. “This isn't just about having a part to play. I had the power to stop it, if I really wanted to. I could have died.”

“So why didn't you?”

Merlin opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn't want to answer that. He didn't want to think about it anymore, and the possibility that Arthur was implying he wished he wasn't here was starting to peck at his brain. “It's not important. Can we just forget about it?”

There was a long pause, and Merlin plumped the pillows unnecessarily, looking for something to do with his hands. He thought that Arthur had been merciful, and was letting it go. No such luck. He appeared at Merlin's side, hovered for a moment and then sat down on the bed so that he could see up into Merlin's face.

“Merlin, you are my closest friend, more than that even. We've been through a lot together, and now-” he paused a moment, clearing his throat, “-now we're all that's left. Whilst I see your reasons, you _lied_ to me about who you were for years. Had you been anyone else, save Guinevere, forgiving you would have been far more difficult. Impossible, even. But I trust you, Merlin, and I know that what you did, you did to help.” He placed a hand on Merlin's arm. “I don't want any more secrets between us.”

Merlin stared at Arthur's open, earnest face and sighed. “I don't either,” he murmured, sitting down beside him. “I waited because it's what I deserved. Because I-” Merlin swallowed, “-I failed you. Whether it was Fate or not, I knew Mordred would be your downfall, and I didn't stop him. I had one job – to protect you, and be by your side, and I failed.” The shock of admitting it out loud, for the first time, winded him. He took a deep breath, trying to hold himself together.

“That's ridiculous,” Arthur said, baffled. “You helped us win that battle, you took out most of Morgana's army and stopped the dragon. How could you possibly have known that Mordred would be the one to kill me?”

Merlin shook his head. “I saw it with my own eyes. Long before the battle, I saw a vision of Camlann, of Mordred killing you.” Arthur looked like he wanted to ask several things at once, his lips twitching slightly, but Merlin continued. “So I could never trust him, no matter how _much_ I wanted to. No matter how much I wanted to believe I could change the future. And now I wonder if I didn't make him into what he was.”

There was a slight uncertainty approaching fear in Arthur's eyes, as if he was now appreciating what asking for the truth really entailed, and wasn't sure he wanted it. “You knew that Mordred was a sorcerer.” He lowered his gaze, something resembling anger seeping into his face.

“But aside from that,” Merlin interrupted, wanting to salvage Arthur's opinion of him, “beyond the obligation and the guilt, I just... I needed to see you again.” He smiled sadly, and Arthur looked up, expression softening as he studied Merlin's face.

Gradually he smiled, and time seemed to stand still for a few seconds. “You once told me you wouldn't be my servant in the next life,” he pointed out, “what changed your mind?”

Merlin laughed, tears in his eyes forgotten. “Well.” He shrugged. “If I didn't, no one else would take the job. You're too high-maintenance.”

With impressive speed, Arthur snatched up one of the pillows and hit Merlin hard in the face with it.

 

That night, beside Arthur, Merlin had the best night's sleep in years. Unbeknownst to him, the same could not be said for Arthur.

*

“But why do we have to go downstairs for breakfast?” Arthur whined. He was lying on his front in bed, lips squashed against the mattress. Merlin rolled his eyes as he zipped up his jeans.

“Because they don't do breakfast in bed, and we need to eat something before we leave. It's a long way home.” He pocketed his keys, giving the room a sweep to be sure he had tidied everything. A glance out of the window showed that the weather had improved a little overnight; there was a faint sheen of winter sunlight, and a lot of the ice had melted, meaning the journey home would be fairly smooth.

Arthur groaned. “I thought you were supposed to be a sorcerer. Can't you dmfgg fmhhhh...” The end of his sentence was muffled as he buried his head under the pillow. Merlin sighed and flipped back the covers, before grabbing Arthur's ankles and tugging him back down the bed.

“Sorry, Sire, I didn't _quite_ catch that.” He unceremoniously dragged Arthur to his feet, carefully letting go when he was reasonably certain he wouldn't fall over.

“I _said_ , you're a sorcerer, can't you... you know...” He made a tired pointing gesture that resembled a lazy homage to Saturday Night Fever. “Transport yourself?”

“That's much too vulgar a display of power, Karras,” Merlin answered, grinning. Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “It's... never mind. But honestly, it requires a lot of power to travel that distance, and I've never tried it while holding onto someone. Would you really like to travel by magic, even without those complications?” Arthur wasn't quick enough to suppress the look of mild disgust. Merlin cleared his throat, trying to act like that didn't sting. “That's what I thought.”

 

Arthur got dressed in the outfit he returned in, minus the armour and chainmail which was packed in the boot of the car. Merlin could find him something more suitable back in London, but it would do for breakfast and the return journey. The dining room was fairly quiet – the only other occupants being an elderly couple and two women in their early fifties. Merlin sifted through the messages on his phone while Arthur tackled his breakfast with interest. At one point, Merlin looked up only to find Arthur scowling slightly.

“What's the matter?”

“This drink is vile,” Arthur grumbled, gesturing at his cup.

“It's coffee. It will perk you up,” Merlin insisted. But Arthur simply gave him a look that suggested he didn't know what “perking up” involved, and he didn't want it to happen to him. Merlin suspected it was more than just the coffee putting him in a bad mood, but he sighed and went to pour Arthur a glass of orange juice, plonking it on the table.

“What is that?” he asked, a moment later. Arthur was peering at Merlin's phone with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.

“It's a mobile phone,” Merlin replied, spinning it round so that Arthur could see. “You use it to communicate with people, though it does a lot of other things too.” Arthur swiped it before Merlin could stop him, and began pressing buttons experimentally like a child.

“What's wrong with—Whoa!” Arthur flailed and dropped the phone as it began to vibrate and play the work ringtone. It continued to hum on the carpet, while Arthur regarded it like a venomous snake and the diners gave them funny looks. Merlin grabbed the phone and spared them a polite, apologetic smile before answering the phone. In front of him, Arthur sipped his juice, trying to affect indifference although his eyes were still quite wide.

Merlin cleared his throat to dislodge the laugh. “Hello?”

“ _Hey, it's Jenny. Listen, I know something happened with your family over there, are you still out of town?_ ” It was his and Kavindra's boss. Neither of them were particularly fond of her.

“Yeah, though I'm actually on my way back--”

“ _Oh, you are? Oh, fantastic. Look um, it's fine if everything is still a bit hectic but I was wondering if you can attend a meeting today with one of our affiliates? It's just we are so busy over here._ ” She spoke in that false, overbearing way that made it clear she wanted you in, regardless of how she phrased it.

“Uh...” Merlin looked up at Arthur, who was pushing the remainder of his eggs around the plate, looking solemn once more. He really didn't fancy leaving Arthur alone in the flat his first day in the city. “Well, what time is the meeting?”

“ _Oh, brilliant! Thank you so much, Martin. It's at 1. I'll text you the details, but I have to run actually because I'm jumping on the train, bye bye!_ ”

“No, Jenny, I--” But she had already hung up. Merlin spat a series of bizarre, frustrated noises like an old Epson printer and then shoved it in his coat pocket. Arthur watched with mild concern as he dragged a hand over his forehead.

“What's wrong?”

Merlin shook his head. “Nothing, it's just- Oh for God's sake!” His phone was vibrating, this time with a text, and he scooped it up to examine it.

 **13:00  
** **Louise Merchant**  
 **Primula Women's Trust**

Primula was a recently established women's shelter that APS cooperated with regarding help for female Arcanes, specifically those in immediate physical danger or on the verge of losing their homes. There was an address beneath it for the charity's head office in Ealing. Luckily for Merlin, they had woken up early, and if they drove back he would be there on time. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his phone back in his pocket and swallowed his last mouthful of tepid coffee. He hated driving.

“Are you ready to go?”

Arthur nodded and got to his feet. “You know, if this is your idea of gently introducing me to this brand new world, I'm not sure you're the person for the job.” Merlin tugged his coat on as they passed out of the dining room and headed for the entrance.

“You faced dragons and wilddeoren,” he pointed out, “I didn't expect you to be scared of a phone.” Arthur pulled himself up in that offended, haughty manner that he had never quite shaken since his teens.

“I was not scared! I was merely taken by surprise...” His voice trailed off as he looked out at the road, where the cars were flashing past. For a moment, he seemed utterly lost. Merlin felt a stab of sympathy. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Merlin opened the passenger door and gestured for Arthur to get in. “Home.”

*

The drive back to London was uneventful, for the most part. Arthur was uncharacteristically quiet; it was as if the arrival of morning had proved it wasn't all a nasty dream, and the grief had descended on him once more. He stared out of the window for most of the journey, alternating between looking as if he were miles away and seemingly wishing that he, in fact, was. He watched the unfamiliar landscapes and streets unfurl with a mixture of wonder and distaste, head resting against the glass.

About an hour and a half into the drive, Arthur abruptly spoke up. “Merlin.” His voice sounded slightly weak, and Merlin glanced over. Arthur was a tad pale. “Could you-” he swallowed hard, “-could you stop.”

They were in a tree-lined road with no buildings in sight, and Merlin pulled over before quickly reaching to open the door for Arthur. The blonde climbed out of the car and hurried to the other side of the road, bending over as he was violently sick. Merlin winced and slowly got out, but kept his distance until the retches had subsided into empty coughs. Arthur stayed stooped over the frosted grass, as if not sure what to do next. His face was covered in sweat, and he looked as though he might cry.

Merlin had seen Arthur sick plenty of times. The king had made it into something of an art, and it had never bothered him much, not when he had a kingdom to run. But this wasn't a virus, or drunkenness or even just the motion sickness (though that had been a factor). It was as if Arthur's body was rejecting this new reality.

“Arthur?” Merlin went to place a hand on Arthur's back, but the latter stood up as he did so, his expression hard.

“The only person I see here that needs me... is you,” he muttered tiredly, “why couldn't you have just let us both rest?” He went back to the car, leaving Merlin to stand alone on the road.

They both stayed silent the rest of the way.

*

It was 12:21pm by the time they reached Merlin's home in Islington, traffic and residual ice and snow having delayed the journey slightly. The car had been ditched a little earlier, with Merlin planning to discreetly return it to where he found it at a later date. If he remembered. The last few legs of the journey had been covered via Underground, which had been a rather unsettling experience for Arthur, who was still being unusually quiet. And though the former king had a tendency to be overbearing, this was a side of him that Merlin didn't care for. It only added to the concern that Arthur thought Merlin had forced him back into the world, and resented him for it.

When they were forced to take the escalator, they had created a bit of a pile-up with Arthur's reluctance to climb on. There had been much tutting, and eventually Merlin had just tugged Arthur on beside him, calling apologies over his shoulder. In his alarm, Arthur momentarily forgot himself and had clung to Merlin's arm. Merlin had tried to smother the subsequent smile, but when they reached the bottom, Arthur had immediately let go.

Merlin seemed to still be feeling that loss of warmth.

Although his income was modest, Merlin had managed to afford a very respectable two-bedroom flat, due to his accumulated possessions and investments. The living space – comprised of a dining room, living room, kitchen and toilet - was below ground level, and the bedrooms and bathroom were on ground level. There was also a garden, though it was mostly overgrown patio (Merlin hadn't had much time to do any gardening). He was quite proud of it, in truth. He had painted it himself, and added furniture over time, and it actually felt like a home rather than just a place to occupy when he wasn't doing anything else.

There was a bed in the spare room for two reasons. One, simply because friends stayed over from time to time (or, on rare occasions, Arcanes who needed a bed for the night). And two, because if Arthur did come back, where would he stay but here?

He was running late for the meeting, so he moved through the flat like a tornado while Arthur sat awkwardly on the living room settee, flicking through a crime novel. “Right, there's food in the kitchen if you get hungry,” Merlin shouted, as he speed-changed in his bedroom, “I left a--” he hopped around for a second, struggling to get his left leg in his trousers, “--a list of the things you can eat as they are. Don't touch anything elec...” He trailed off as he descended into the living room. “Just don't touch anything that looks strange and complicated, I don't want any accidents.” He stood in front of the mirror, smoothing his hair and trying not to be discouraged by Arthur's ongoing silence.

Surreptitiously, Merlin sniffed his armpits. He had showered very quickly that morning, and the trip had been a long one, but he thought he would be okay. He looked surprisingly presentable for someone who was undergoing the emotional equivalent of a game of Jenga. He grabbed his coat and keys and turned to Arthur. “Now, please don't answer the door, and please don't go out.”

“Don't worry, Merlin,” Arthur said, not looking up from the book. “I've no intention of getting lost in this godforsaken place.”

“Of course, and I'll be back soon, it's only a quick work-related--”

“I'll be fine.” Arthur spared him a brief glance, his tone and his expression fairly cold. “Aren't you going to be late?”

Merlin nodded awkwardly, and dashed out.

*

In the end, he was a bit late, but fortunately, Louise was off sick, and her replacement for the meeting was on the way back from an errand. Merlin waited in Louise's office, which was on the third floor. It was neat, but sparsely furnished, with a grey filing cabinet, a large wooden desk, and three chairs – a large, black swivel one behind the desk, and two cushioned wooden ones for guests. Despite the air of professionalism, the walls had some more candid photographs amongst the certificates and company group shots, and there were postcards here and there. A couple of framed photos on the desk showed Louise – a pretty, British-Indian woman in her thirties, who he recognized from charity events – alongside what he assumed were her husband and two daughters. One was the typical Disneyland shot, but the second was taken in what appeared to be Italy, and the girls were slightly older.

“So sorry to keep you, I know you were expecting Louise.” Merlin shifted in his seat to see a young woman manoeuvring sideways through the door, a box clasped tightly in her arms that was cascading papers like confetti. She swore delicately under her breath as Merlin bounced out of his seat to help her.

“Here,” he said, crouching to scoop the offending items from the floor.

“Ah, _thank you_.” There was a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude in her voice, and Merlin raised his head to respond. However, the sight of her made him freeze, words sinking away from his lips. It had been centuries since he saw her last, and then she had worn the garments of a queen instead of a pencil skirt and a red, wool coat. But that face, illuminated by its signature smile, was unmistakable.

He was looking at Gwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is an Arthur/Merlin fic, but despite the fact I'm not a massive Arthur/Gwen shipper, I don't like it when their love or Gwen's importance is just dismissed in the pursuit of Merthur. Just because I don't celebrate it, doesn't change the fact that it's real. I don't think that Arthur loving Gwen affects his ability to love Merlin, and I think Gwen played a massive part in Arthur becoming the man that he was when he died. Gwen is amazing.
> 
> Lyrics from “Ghosts That We Knew” by Mumford and Sons.


	4. INTERLUDE II - 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I wasn't well for a while, and then had some personal difficulties which made it hard to write. Thank you for all your lovely comments, and as always, thank you for reading!

INTERLUDE II

  


Bethnal Green, England, 1939

“I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street...” 

It was eighty-one years until Arthur rose from the Avalon, and the weather was pleasant. The streets were washed in a gentle sunlight, but there was an uncomfortable stillness to the air, a sense of an entire country holding its breath. 

Merlin stood beside the half-open window of a family house, back against the wall, and eyes closed as his listened to the radio broadcast. His face was tilted upwards, arms tight across his chest. There was a sick feeling in his stomach that wasn't helped by the fact he had eaten little over the last week. He possessed the means to get food, of course, but he had felt simultaneously hungry and unwilling to eat. Exactly how many bodies would this war put into the mud? How many soldiers, like Arthur, would die miles from their family? Most would die without the comfort of knowing their success. 

Even when people around him had scoffed at the idea of war, Merlin remained certain, and found himself once more withdrawing from company, unable to stomach their denial. He always knew when something terrible was building, he could sense it the way you could smell a rainstorm. 

He also knew intrinsically, that Arthur wasn't coming – not that day, anyway – yet he travelled to Avalon with impatience. He had to know for sure. The train shuddered as it snaked through the countryside, but he pretended to be asleep, cheek pressed against the cold window, knuckles white where his fingers gripped his drawstring bag. He pictured the passing scenery in his head, for he had made the journey enough times to memorize it, like a pilgrim charting the course to a place of worship. And like a temple he visited it when he felt lost, or the loneliness became too acute. He would sit on the grass and watch the plinth silently, or talk aloud – half to Arthur, half to himself – and sometimes he would grieve. In the constantly shifting landscape, it was the only unspoiled monument to his time with Arthur, to their friends and family. Occasionally, he went to vent his anger. Today was one of those days. 

He almost ran to the field's edge, teetering slightly as he came to a halt. There was no Arthur, and no movement save the ripples in the grass caused by the wind. Merlin threw his bag onto the ground, hard enough to upset the contents, and raked thin fingers through his hair. 

“What's it going to take?” he hissed, caught between anger and mirthless laughter. “You know what's going to happen, as well as I do. How long are you going to make me stand around and watch this country be torn apart? I mean, is this what we were promised? Is... Is _this_ what it was all for?” His words gushed out faster than he could process them, and he almost gagged. 

“My entire life spent in service, asking nothing, receiving nothing, and this is what becomes of Albion?” The sentence ended in a near screech, and he took a deep breath, tears beginning to blur his vision. “I could have met someone, built a new life, had a family, let myself die with them. But instead I wait alone, watching everyone I love die... and I _killed_ people for this. I'd just like to know, that I did any of that, threw away all of that for a reason.” 

He wiped the tears roughly from his cheeks, pressing his fingers against his closed lids in an effort to keep more from flowing. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, calmer, but still uneven. “Is this a punishment? Did I... Did I go wrong, somewhere? Did I fail some sort of test, and so now I'm supposed t-to sit around and endure the consequences? Please, just... I just need you to tell me what I have to do.” He bit into his lip, eyes pleading as he looked out across the site. Save the rustling of leaves, and the occasional passing car, it was silent as a grave. 

* 

He waited beneath the cover of the trees for two days, just in case, before going to enlist.


	5. Chapter 3

_I know everybody lets you down_  
I'll do the same  
But know I'll always be around  
This can remain the same 

_Call me when you need me_  
Call me anything you want  
Darling, believe me   
Nothing I haven't done before 

Chapter Three

A few seconds passed, and there was no flood of recognition on Gwen's part, just a pleasant smile that – due to Merlin's impolite gawking – was visibly giving way to concern. _Am I seeing things?_ he wondered, blinking rapidly. “You all right?” she asked. He gave himself a mental kick, spreading his lips in a smile that he tried to prevent from being maniacal. Judging by the twitch of her eyebrows, he wasn't altogether successful.

“No, I mean, yeah... _Sorry_ ,” he got to his feet, gently placing the papers back in the box, “recovering from a hangover, not all there today.” She seemed satisfied with that and opened her mouth in an “ah” of understanding, setting the box beside the desk. 

“Yeah, you looked a bit off-colour, I have to say.” She continued talking as she shrugged off her coat, revealing a cornflower blue blouse over her grey skirt. “Rough night was it?” Merlin let out an awkward laugh.

“You could say that,” he murmured. She started off on some sort of anecdote about a recent drunken outing, but Merlin was still reeling in shock. Why was Gwen here, now? It made sense for Arthur to return, as it had been foretold and Merlin had sustained the weight of time due to his power, but as far as he knew, none of their loved ones shared their fate. Merlin knew that his friend Gwen had died peacefully in her sleep, well into her eighties. Yet now this young woman stood before him, with the same face, voice and very similar disposition, and she did not recognize him. Did that mean she also wouldn't recognize Arthur? If not, why would the world bring her back into it, if not to be at Arthur's side?

“...half the morning being sick in the work toilet,” Gwen was saying as Merlin let her words filter into his ears again. She grimaced. “Sorry, tiny bit too much information, there.” She let out a nervous laugh, and Merlin couldn't help but beam at her. Whether she remembered him or not, her personality had hardly changed, and he felt a surge of emotion as he realized how much he had missed her. He wished that he could embrace her.

“No, it's fine,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Um, I'm afraid they didn't leave me your name?” 

“Ah yes, I'm Gwen. Gwen Nevett,” she replied, shaking Merlin's hand. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Everything's a bit hectic today. There was an incident at one of our shelters last night when someone had a go at an Arcane.” She sat down, gesturing for him to do the same. “It's Martin, isn't it?”

He nodded quickly, distracted. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Nothing worse than a bruise, luckily, but it created quite a stir. You lot must have your hands full too, after the Oxford Street business yesterday.” 

Merlin tilted his head. “Oxford Street business? I was wrapped up in some personal stuff so I hadn't heard...”

“Arcane Youth were set up in Oxford Street yesterday and a member of the public threw a bottle at one of them. The attacker and the victim were both dragged down to the station, but the bastard got away with it. The Arcane got held overnight – something about inciting an antagonistic response for show, for the sake of the crowd.” Her face contorted momentarily in anger, before she shook her head, visibly collecting herself. Merlin felt a ripple of fury, calmed by a slight sensation of guilt. If he had stopped and helped out yesterday, or gone into work... 

But it was pointless to beat himself up over that now, and whether Arthur liked it or not, he did need him.

 _Arthur._ A fresh wave of guilt washed over him as he looked up at Gwen. 

*

Arthur sat cross-legged on Merlin's blue sofa, spooning corn flakes from the box wedged in his lap. His body was tense, and alert; everything in this room was either alien to him or recreated in a way he was unfamiliar with, and with a childish sort of absolution he _hated_ all of it. Everything seemed to him either blunt and impersonal – like the blank sheen of the television – or too bright and needlessly colourful, like the mugs hanging in the kitchen. Merlin had used the word “efficient” to justify most of it. Efficient, to Arthur, used to mean battle strategies or particularly diligent subjects. A killing blow could be _efficient_. A home was supposed to be warm, comforting and familiar – soft adjectives, pleasant on the tongue. 

_Efficient._ Arthur's lip curled in disgust and he pushed himself off the sofa, the box of corn flakes tucked under one arm as he wandered through the flat. He tugged books out of the cases and shelves, spreading open their pages with the tips of his fingers as if they might bite him. Even the text was small and uniform – he couldn't imagine any human could write this way – and there were scores of words he didn't even recognize. 

He had left the kitchen in disarray after investigating all the cupboards and corners of the fridge, prying open jars and boxes and sniffing experimentally or flat-out sticking his finger in. He knew he was being destructive and even running the risk of food poisoning, but he didn't really care at that point. In the haze of confusion and anger he had decided a sensible scapegoat for his misery and frustration was Merlin – the philosophy had served him well enough before – and so if he had the chance to wreck his house, he was jolly well going to do it.

Discarding the corn flakes, Arthur made his way into Merlin's bedroom. Light streamed in through the parted curtains, pooling on the navy bedclothes. Even more bookshelves lined the walls, and there were florid banners attached to the walls, although Arthur couldn't understand what they were for. _What in God's name is Star Wars?_ As his fingers skimmed the shiny surface of the paper, he glanced over at the pine wardrobe and made his way toward it. The garments inside were truly bizarre, and Arthur was certain that publicly wearing at least one of them would be grounds for execution. Even the fabrics themselves were curious, and for a moment Arthur thought it unusual for a servant to have such extravagant clothes. Then he remembered Merlin was no longer a servant, and a strange weight suddenly bore down upon him, and he sat down heavily on the bed. It bounced slightly under his weight, and he turned over the shirt he had been examining, red as the Pendragon crest. 

_Have you been waiting this_ whole time _?_

Suddenly he caught sight of a wooden chest at the bottom of the wardrobe, clearly a few decades old as the shine had worn in places and the surface was cracked. It had carved ivy leaves and a bronze metal clasp with a keyhole, but it wasn't locked. Putting aside the shirt, he crawled forward and flicked the lid open, revealing stacks of papers, clippings and personal photographs. Merlin had explained photographs briefly to Arthur when they were on the Tube, as they had been surrounded by advertisements, although he had drowned out the technical specifics. There was something alarming about seeing a vivid representation of a face staring back at you. Arthur thought it rather defeated the purpose of a rendering – not to serve as a mirror but as the essence of the person, immortal and infallible. This seemed wildly intrusive. 

As he shuffled through the pictures, multiple Merlins gazed back at him. He was smiling in some, but most depicted him with a slightly distracted expression. Some in colour, some sepia and some black-and-white, they had obviously been amassed from various decades. It was interesting – Arthur had to admit to himself – to see pieces of a personal history, to watch the faces of Merlin's companions change, and the fashions even more so. Arthur wondered who they had been, these stand-ins for their friends and loved ones. Several photos, however, either didn't have Merlin in them at all – there was one black-and-white photo of an unnamed family of five, dated 1913 – or at first glance did not, but on closer inspection revealed some unnervingly familiar features, give or take some wrinkles or facial hair. Something that never faded, however, was an unmistakable age to Merlin's eyes that hadn't been present in Camelot. Arthur had only been afford glimpses of the alarming new world outside the window, but Merlin had grown with it, been shaped by it and suffered with it. He had kept watch. 

_Well, I didn't just sit around doing nothing. We've been at war, you know. There was the plague. There was a fire. I've been kept very busy._

Arthur sifted through the papers; some in English – which in its modern form was distinctly alien to him – and some in languages he didn't recognize at all. Most were newspaper clippings, although they were interspersed with vintage advertisements, wartime posters, old tickets and playbills. The text was too difficult for Arthur to read, but through the photographs and illustrations he was shown destruction and death, celebration and creation, strange and complicated machines and an endless evolution of style. He let it all fall back in haphazardly, and rubbed at his temples to discourage the encroaching headache. He knew he wasn't being fair to Merlin, really. He had faced this all alone, in its slow progression, and all on Arthur's behalf. And it had left its mark on Merlin in a way he had failed to appreciate.

But it reminded Arthur of just how little he knew Merlin. In the face of death he had allowed himself to let go of that doubt, because how could it matter? The end was coming, and he was fortunate enough to have his dearest friend by his side. He didn't want to waste his last breath in hatred, when the bottom line was that he did trust Merlin. _Had_ trusted him. He had been certain, in the clarity only afforded to the dying, that Merlin's intentions were good. Yet, in being alive once more and with full presence of mind, a wealth of questions presented themselves. And whilst it had never been his nature to take the easy way out, he couldn't help but wish he could return to Avalon instead of facing this chilling future. Regardless of what Merlin had said, he couldn't understand what purpose his presence could possibly serve. The people of this country were now strangers, in an incongruous landscape. He had no title, no land. His kingdom was gone, as were his wife and friends, save one. 

Leaning back against the door of the wardrobe, he wondered what Guinevere would say, were she here. It seemed to him suddenly that he could see her, sitting on the edge of the bed, radiating warmth and concern, her eyes gentle.

_You know this won't bring you comfort, Arthur. Don't distance yourself from the one person you have left._

“I don't know if I can trust him.”

_You can't really mean that. Merlin has shown you nothing but loyalty and love, in all the years you've known him._

“And for all those same years he kept secrets from me. If he concealed something so great as being a sorcerer, what else do you suppose he hasn't told me?”

He imagined her looking at him in that way that silently said, “be reasonable, Arthur”. It was an expression he had seen enough to conjure easily, and he wondered what that said about him. 

_Arthur, I know you loved your father dearly... but I don't think I have to remind you of his position on sorcery--_

“I'm not my father.” His voice was surprisingly sharp.

_No. No, you're not. But you have to admit that his prejudices influenced yours._

“Was that without reason? I lose count of how many times magic threatened Camelot, even before Morgana betrayed us. It was my father's end... It was my _mother's_ \--”

_I know. I know. And I understand, believe me I do. But listening to your words now, do you really not see why he kept it from you?_

He did see, of course; Uther's reign would have been enough to put someone off someone so much as reheating their food with magic. Even if he hadn't been as vehement in public, Arthur had upheld the ban on sorcery, and Merlin had been witness to his personal distrust of it. “...Yet even then, it was my feelings he put first,” Arthur recalled slowly, “he didn't want to put me in the position of judging him.” 

_And if he had told you, he risked being robbed of the chance to protect you. Just as your sword kills your enemies, it keeps you safe. Just as Morgana used magic to threaten Camelot, Merlin used magic to protect it._

He remembered what Merlin had said, a split second after telling him of his powers. He had been barely able to speak, choking on tears. _I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you._

“But where does that put me?” Arthur wondered aloud, “if he has been protecting me, what victories did I earn, and which were won by magic? What was luck, and what was his interference?” 

The thought wounded his pride, and he grimaced. He hated taking credit that was not due him, even if Merlin was content to surrender it. He had won subjects and loyalties on the basis of battles won and people saved. What if he did not deserve their allegiance, or faith? What if, in the absence of Merlin, he would have failed them tenfold?

Guinevere smiled fondly and got to her feet, curls spilling over her shoulder and catching the light.

_Merlin was given to you for a reason. You compensate for each other's limits, you are two sides of the same coin. Without him... you would have struggled, yes. But without you, he would also have failed. And will fail, since clearly, this isn't over. You say you don't know why you're here, well... maybe that's it. Maybe this is how you can repay him. You care about him, and he needs you._

She knelt beside him then, her nightdress pooling on the floor. He had an absurd thought that she should be wearing something warmer, as it was winter and there was no fireplace. The dead do not fear the cold, he thought.

“Guinevere...” he murmured sadly, “I never got to--”

_Shhh..._

She leant forward, and he should have felt her lips on his forehead, should have felt her hair against his cheek. But there was nothing. His eyes flashed open ( _when did I close them?_ ) and Guinevere was gone.

He was alone. 

*

The meeting was mostly business, but despite the slightly nauseatingly surreal situation, Merlin had enjoyed talking to Gwen. They agreed on so many points about the approach to their cause, and even though their subject matter was different and she didn't really know him, her presence was as calming as ever. There had been many times when Merlin had worried he would never get Arthur back, but now he had Gwen as well. 

_And I don't really deserve it._

Unwilling to go home, Merlin found himself sitting in a Starbucks, a warm latte cupped between his hands, untouched. He occupied the sole spare seat, at the counter that ran the length of the window. The panes were mostly steamed up, but he stared at the street through a clear patch, not really processing what was in front of him. To tell Arthur, or not to? Gwen didn't recognize Merlin, which meant she was unlikely to recognize Arthur, and that would only cause him pain. _And if I tell him, but manage to keep him away, won't the knowledge of her being there, unattainable, be just as painful?_

He knew, with a sick, heaviness in his stomach, that the right thing to do would be to tell Arthur, and let him decide for himself. But it was easier said than done.

Someone dropped a mug, and the smash caused him to glance round momentarily. When he turned back, he was struck by the sight of an old man standing in an alleyway opposite the Starbucks, staring unflinchingly at him. _He knows me, and I know him_ , Merlin thought suddenly, although he wasn't aware of how he knew that. The seconds seemed to stretch between their gaze, before the man's mouth curved into a ghost of a smile. And then a woman passed in front of him and he was gone. Merlin jolted out of his seat and hurried out onto the pavement, almost taking a chair with him in the process. Disregarding the traffic, he ran across the street, coming to an abrupt halt in the alleyway. He glanced back the way he had come, as if expecting to find the old man drinking his coffee, before moving further onward. The alleyway started as a narrow gap between a bakery and a shoe shop, the walls paint-splattered, high and claustrophobic, then swerved into a corner space at the back of the shoe shop. There was nothing but an over-stuffed wheelie bin and some broken bottles, and the faint smell of vomit from when a drunk had staggered through. Another short space between the buildings led out onto the one-way road behind the shops, but that too was empty. Wrinkling his nose, Merlin peered out onto the almost deserted side street, yet there was no sign of the old man.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder and, almost without thinking, he spun round, grabbing the arm and pushing its owner hard against the wall. A shaft of sunlight washed over their face as their head hit the wall, and Merlin found himself looking at a young, but unmistakably familiar face. Despite the fact that Merlin's hand was at his throat, his grey-green eyes danced with amusement, and he laughed with some difficulty. “It's been a while since I've been to England, but I assumed you still greet friends with a shake of hands?” 

“Edouard?” Merlin's panic receded, the magic calming in his veins, and he let go of the other man quickly. Joy followed the flush of recognition. “What are you doing here? When was it I last saw you?” Edouard smiled as he rubbed the arm Merlin had grabbed onto. He was a tall man, not overly muscular but with a heavier build than Merlin (who was by no means as slight as he used to be). A few faint scars dotted his face, and his nose was slightly misshapen, having once been broken in a battle of some sort. He had never corrected it, saying it added a curious charm to his appearance, although he had charm enough without it. He was brown-skinned, and the fringe of his curly black hair dangled over one eye. Merlin always wanted to push it out of the way. 

“You always ask too many questions at once,” he insisted. “To answer in reverse, I saw you in Paris, on New Year's Eve of 1918. You and Rose got into an argument about the Revolutionary Wars and nearly set the place on fire.”

Merlin scratched the side of his head, frowning. “I don't remember much of that.”

“No, well, you had also consumed most of Rose's wine,” Edouard said, with an air of embarrassment. Merlin considered, and the memory seemed to unfurl itself a little. At the end of the First World War, he had stayed in the tiny, top floor flat Edouard had shared with his wife Rose. It had been a charming, if dank place, with only two rooms. One was the main room in which they all slept and ate, with a large, sloping window comprising one of the walls. The other was the bathroom, although that was a generous term. It was windowless and small, with only a bathtub and a toilet – the only sink being in the main room. At night they tangled together beneath a patchwork of blankets, with the rats scratching in the walls and the rain on the window to lull them to sleep. And as much as Merlin had cared for them, he had only accepted the offer to stay because his flat had been destroyed during the war, and after a few weeks their concern over his drinking began to bother him. He had left on New Year's Eve, with some bullshit about new beginnings as an excuse.

 _More guilt._ “And as for why you're here?” Merlin asked, prompting the smile to fade from Edouard's face. “Why did you conceal yourself just now?”

“We've been living in California, but I was forced out,” he whispered, sparing a cautious glance in either direction, “yet I may still be recognized here.” Merlin was confused. He knew that arcaneism was stronger in the US than it was in the UK, but he didn't see why anyone would care enough to follow Edouard to England. Stranger still was the fact that Edouard had not returned to France, where – aside from amongst the more religious groups – arcaneism was largely non-existent. 

He asked as much aloud.

“It is not the arcaneists I'm running from,” Edouard replied, “and I came here because I needed your help, Emrys.” Merlin flinched slightly at the use of his other name, and now it was his turn to be on edge. He was wary of the consequences of his identity becoming known. He knew that a large part of the Arcane community thought him dead, whilst others had either dismissed him as a coward or sought him with an almost religious fervour. Not to mention the people who failed to believe he existed at all. 

“Could you _not_ use that name in public?” Merlin hissed, “you're not the only one trying to keep a low profile.” Edouard raised an eyebrow.

“Your alias is 'Martin Emerson',” he pointed out, tone flat, “you're not exactly George Smiley.” Merlin scratched the back of his head, smiling sheepishly. “...But have it your way.”

“So who are you running from, if not arcaneists?” 

Another suspicious look. “Not here,” Edouard said firmly, “is there somewhere we can speak in safety?” 

*

A rush of icy wind made Gwen shrink into her coat, her mauve scarf wrinkling up over her nose as she did so. Lamenting her decision to wear a skirt for the fourth time today, she just about skipped up the slope to her flat building, heels clicking against the concrete. Her two hands were full of shopping that had been banging against her calves all the way back from Sainsbury's, but she shifted them to one hand to open the outer door. She almost got the bags caught in the door in her haste to close the lift. 

Shivering from residual cold as it climbed, her mind went back to the APS worker she had met today, and smiled to herself. It was a strange feeling; she didn't really believe in destiny, as such, but he was the second person she had met and felt this inexorable sense that they were meant to get on. It was as if they were picking up on a conversation they had left off, some time in the past. She hoped she would be able to work with him again.

As she elbowed her way into the flat, the person who had first inspired that feeling in Gwen was standing in the hallway. A damp, orange towel was pressed against Morgan's mane of wet, black hair, and she was wearing a baggy V For Vendetta t-shirt over her checked red pyjama pants. Because she was honestly the sort of self-confessed activist who owned a Guy Fawkes mask (and tended to sing 'Do You Hear the People Sing?' without irony when she was drunk). 

Sharp green eyes met hers as Morgan lifted her head. “Hey, you're home later than I expected,” she murmured, the end of her sentence slightly muffled by a welcome-home kiss. She relieved Gwen of two of the bags and followed her into the kitchen. 

“Long, hectic day,” Gwen muttered, “too tired to cook. I think we'll just order Chinese tonight.” After putting away the chilled and frozen food, she changed into a coral, faux-turtleneck jumper and grey sweatpants whilst Morgan lightly blow-dried her hair. The warmth of the flat was comforting after a cold day of running all over London, and the carpet was much more forgiving to her bare, aching feet. 

“Met a nice guy today,” announced Gwen, as she was unpacking the rest of the shopping. Morgan was fetching the dirty washing basket from the bathroom.

“Ooh, should I be jealous?” Her disembodied voice had a gleeful lilt to it. Gwen grinned and shook her head, nudging aside the boxes of tea to make room for... well, more tea. Gwen was content with the typical cuppa that all Brits learnt as a rite of passage, but Morgan was the type to test the very definition of tea itself. She generally had at least five different kinds of tea in the cupboard at any one time, including one packet of Strawberry Rooibos she didn't even like but stubbornly refused to throw away. 

_“We might need it,” Morgan had insisted, when she caught Gwen trying to dispose of it for the third time. Morgan had been busy making placards for a protest in Leicester Square and was generously blotched with paint like a day-glo cow._

_Gwen had raised an eyebrow at the packet, then at Morgan. “For what, exactly?”_

_“Ah!” Morgan had answered enigmatically, before quickly leaving the room. And that had been the end of that discussion._

“He works for APS UK,” Gwen clarified currently, her head half-way in the freezer. It would need de-icing again soon. “You'd like him – he's very passionate.” Morgan sauntered in and perched on the counter, her bare feet bumping against the cabinet. 

“ _Passionate_ ,” she repeated, with a teasing air, then grew serious. “Is he an Arcane?” Morgan was, as a rule, rather distrustful of Arcane allies, present company excepted, of course. Gwen understood her trepidation, naturally, but she had always had always been gifted with patience, even in the face of the undeserving. When introducing Morgan to people, Gwen could always see her making a mental check of their qualities. At the end of the evening, there would undoubtedly be a letter grade assigned to them. 

“Yes, and quite gifted from what I hear,” Gwen replied, and saw a brief look of satisfaction on Morgan's face. He had passed the first test.

“You should have him over some time, so I can--”

“So you can interrogate him?”

“So I can _inquire_ as to his policies regarding the treatment of Arcanes in this country.”

“He's a charity worker, not a politician,” Gwen pointed out, grabbing a couple of plates from the cupboard and heading over to the dinner table. The china had been bought during their holiday in Spain the previous year, and were decorated with a couple dancing in an orange grove, done in blue. The regular china tended to get chipped during parties by over-exuberant guests, and so they used these plates whenever they were eating alone. “His powers are limited.”

“His _resources_ might be limited, yes,” Morgan said, scooping cutlery from the drawer. “But his _power_ is not. There is power in influence. That's APS's problem.” _If they knew how to organize people better..._ Gwen recited mentally. “If they knew how to organize people better, united over a common cause... there's no telling what they could achieve.”

Gwen carefully extracted the knives and forks from Morgan's right hand, which had been gesturing wildly, and almost taken her eye out. “Then why don't you apply for a job there? Straighten them out?” she asked, a goading smile on her face. Morgan gave the exasperated sigh of one revisiting an old argument.

“Because Arcane Youth needs my supervision,” she answered tiredly, “my brother got arrested last night, can you imagine what would have happened if I wasn't there?” 

Morgan wandered back to the kitchen to phone for Chinese, and Gwen decided against saying what she was thinking – that it might have been resolved more smoothly had Morgan _not_ been there. Much as Gwen loved the woman, she had a habit of antagonizing authority figures. She had been arrested on several occasions, and if it weren't for the fact that they had friends and family in the force, Morgan might have been incarcerated by now. She was brave, and she practised what she preached – that was one of the things Gwen admired about her – but she was very much at the mercy of her emotions. 

 

Hell, Morgan had been arrested the day of their first date.

_“Why am I here?” Gwen asked, fighting off a smile when she had found Morgan at the police station, waiting on the plastic seats. “Do you actually expect me to bail you out?” They had met a grand total of three times previously, although those occasions had been heavy with flirting, and butterflies had set up camp in Gwen's stomach in a way she hadn't experienced since secondary school. Still, she hadn't expected to become the girl's emergency contact without so much as a kiss._

_Morgan had been taken into custody after a peaceful protest she was participating in turned violent, courtesy of some drunken students. She had been one of the unlucky innocents hauled off, and apparently was the last to be collected. Her eyeliner was smudged, her long black hair messy from the wind and the circumstances under which she arrived there, and she was grinning at Gwen in a way that made her flush._

_“Of course not,” she replied, genuinely shocked that Gwen would suggest such a thing. “My parents covered my bail, but they refused to drive me home. Fortunately, I had your business card.” She fished the small rectangle of card out of her leather jacket and waved it like a winning raffle ticket._

_Gwen laughed incredulously. “I'm sorry, so, did you ask me here to be your chauffeur?”_

_“Actually, I was wondering if you might want to go for a drink,” Morgan replied, looking suddenly hopeful. Gwen had to rein in her smile a little, in the foolish hope of affecting nonchalance._

_“Oh, well...” She glanced down for a moment, and then the grin broke across her face despite her best efforts._ For God's sake, am I actually blushing? _“I'd like that. That would be good.”_

_Morgan's smile had almost rivalled her own._

 

Gwen didn't drive her home in the end, and things had escalated rather quickly from then on. Morgan had been a practised flirt, but she only had eyes for Gwen, and soon she moved out of her family's estate and into Gwen's flat. Gwen didn't mind the sudden addition to her home; she had always felt rather lonely after graduating from Cambridge, and often seized the smallest excuse to visit her father and brother. Not only that, Morgan made her laugh, she was exciting and attentive, and waking up without her just felt wrong. As for Morgan, she had never seen eye to eye with her parents, and although she had been unemployed at the time, she wouldn't accept their money unless she had no alternative. Staying at home was just a pit-stop after finishing uni, but also a way of keeping an eye on her younger brother. 

The truth was, however, that while her sexuality and her magic blood theoretically left her open to discrimination, her parents' money and the confidence bestowed by it had long shielded her from any real hardship. The greatest resistance she had faced before entering university was from her parents themselves, and more so over her desire to cause trouble than her sexuality (which they didn't care about) or her magic blood (despite neither of them being Arcanes). Certainly, Morgan had now faced plenty of discrimination, but not before she went looking for it. And while she had doubtless helped others, and wasn't afraid to stick her neck out for people, the anger that she felt was just as much generated by her lack of oppression as it was by the oppression of others. Half the time, trouble came for Morgan, and the other half she sought it out herself, consciously or not.

She had a job now, as a part-time administrator for Primula, and as a part-time library assistant, but her mind was always on her work for Arcane Youth. The current members were limited to students of her brother's university, and mostly friends of his, but Morgan was convinced it would grow. 

_“He needs the positive outlet,” Morgan had reasoned, one night in bed, books open on their laps. “He's just discovering his magic and he's impressionable. I'm worried about Llywelyn getting into his head. I'm almost certain he's involved with that terrorist group.”_

_“If they even exist...”_

_“Oh, they exist all right.”_

A clinking sound made Gwen glance back into the kitchen. The light in the fridge was a halo around Morgan's head, and she was examining the bottle of Merlot that Gwen had bought for her family dinner tomorrow. 

“Hey, put that back,” Gwen ordered, “not for you.” She started toward Morgan, who pre-emptively held it out of arm's reach. 

“Oh let's just have one glass,” she pleaded, “it's bad enough you're drinking it without me.” Gwen rolled her eyes and launched forward, dancing on tip-toe, but Morgan moved her arm in time. 

“Not my fault you're working tomorrow,” she replied, unrelenting, “you're free to buy wine if you want it.” Morgan grimaced – she was too spoilt to drink cheap wine, and she couldn't really allow for nice wine on her wages. In her disappointment, she sagged and Gwen snatched the bottle away. “Ha!”

A half-hearted chase around the living room ensued, before Morgan wrestled Gwen to the carpet, subduing her with kisses. The bottle rolled away, forgotten. 

Then the doorbell rang, and Morgan groaned in frustration against her neck. “Take away's never usually this fast, the universe must hate me,” she declared dramatically. Gwen snorted and swatted at the hand which was still trying to push up her shirt. Getting to her feet, she headed for the door, but not before stooping to pick up the wine bottle so that Morgan couldn't run off with it again. “Ah! That... why?” Morgan complained sadly, flopping on the floor in exaggerated despair. Gwen spared a smirk before peering through the peep-hole. 

She frowned. “It's your brother,” she announced. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Morgan sit up, perplexed, as she opened the door. “Mordred!”

He grinned sheepishly at her, and as his hands shifted nervously, Gwen's eyes went to the bulging duffel bag he was carrying. _Oh dear_. “Hey Gwen, um...”

“Do you want to come in?” she asked politely, stepping back to let him through. He looked relieved, and muttered a word of thanks before hurrying inside. By the time she had closed the door, Morgan was standing up, arms folded as she appraised her brother. She glanced at the bag speculatively, then at Gwen. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, turning back to Mordred, “I thought Mum and Dad were keeping you under lock and key after yesterday, away from my 'toxic influence'.” Mordred rolled his eyes. 

“I had a row with them this morning. They were going on about me missing too much uni--”

“Which you are...”

He bristled, fingers tightening around the handle of his bag. “I'm doing work for AY. It's not like I'm just sitting on my arse doing nothing.”

“I deliberately tried to arrange demonstrations so that you wouldn't have to miss class,” Morgan said, voice climbing slightly. 

“You went to Oxford, you got a bachelor's and I've heard you say time and time again how utterly useless it is,” Mordred reminded her, “what makes you think this degree will serve me any better?” When Mordred got frustrated, Gwen often felt like she was getting a glimpse of Morgan when she was younger. A lot of his body language mirrored hers, and although – since he took after their mother more – their appearances were dissimilar, they had the same fire in their eyes, in their blood. 

Morgan took a deep breath, visibly trying to maintain her patience. “Firstly, I only went to Oxford to shut Mum and Dad up, and get some space. But instead of taking the opportunity to read something I might actually enjoy, I just went for classics. Because at the end of it I could make the point you are trying to – that a fancy university education is unnecessary and useless. But it's not just about what you study, it's about who you meet. It was the perfect place to make connections, and if I had been on a course more suited to me, who knows, I might have actually learned something. If you really want to make a life out of activism, a career even, then you need to know people. You have to... you have to take advantage of the resources at your disposal.”

Gwen smiled as she watched them from the comfort of her squashy, purple armchair, bottle of wine still cradled in her lap. It was amazing how sensible Morgan could sound when she was worried about her brother. Mordred was visibly torn between relenting at her logic, and holding onto his anger out of pride. 

When he spoke, his voice was softer than Gwen had expected. “They said you want to get me into trouble. They said you want to take me down with you, that you planned on me getting arrested to further your... our cause.”

Anger and hurt flashed in Morgan's eyes, and her arms dropped to her sides. Gwen sent a silent wave of negativity out at their parents – even if Morgan failed to calm the police, she would never intentionally throw someone else under the bus. Least of all Mordred. “I would _never_ do that to you, I just said--”

“I know!” Mordred interrupted, his face young and earnest. “I told them. I defended you. But they...” He looked off to one side, recalling something unpleasant, and then shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I can't be there any more.” 

Morgan and Gwen simultaneously looked at the duffel bag again. “Mordred, you can't stay here,” Morgan said, suddenly exhausted. Mordred looked at her almost pitifully.

“Oh come on, I'll contribute to the rent. Please, I can't fucking stand it there.”

“It's not my flat, it's Gwen's. And don't go giving her your puppy dog eyes. She's got more than enough Lafayette family members under her roof already.” The doorbell rang then and Morgan walked purposefully toward it, probably with a mind to chuck Mordred past the delivery man.

He sighed, deflated, and Gwen felt bad for him despite Morgan's warning. Mordred was a good kid, and although it was true that things would get a bit cramped, she did have a spare room and he probably wouldn't be home much. Anyway, he was Morgan's brother, Gwen was very fond of him, and she knew how much he adored and admired Morgan. The day he had come round to help Morgan moved in, he had looked almost on the verge of tears.

“I don't mind if he stays,” Gwen said finally, and Mordred's face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

“See?” he called to Morgan, who was dealing with a rather bewildered young delivery man, “Gwen says she doesn't mind.” There was a rustle of plastic bags, accompanied by the sound of the door closing, and Morgan walked into the main room brandishing the food.

“That's because she's too nice,” Morgan replied, shooting Gwen a look that said _Traitor_. Mordred hurried forward and grabbed the carrier bags, before going to the kitchen counter and taking out the containers, in a desperate attempt to prove himself worthy. “I don't want him thinking he can just foist himself on other people when things get rough,” Morgan whispered to Gwen. 

“He promised to pay rent, and it's only for the time being,” Gwen insisted, before raising her voice to say: “And he'll be closer to uni, so he won't have any excuse to miss it.” Mordred paused in his actions, looking as if he was trying to work out whether he had been helped or betrayed. 

Morgan dropped her voice lower, almost whining. “But do you really want him around when we're doing important things like work, entertaining friends and having sex on the kitchen floor?”

Gwen laughed and brushed her thumb across Morgan's cheek. “We have a bedroom to ourselves, remember. If he's living here, you can keep an eye on him, and he can learn to live without the support of your parents, at least.” Then, as an afterthought: “And we can still use the kitchen when he's out.” She rose to her feet, leaving Morgan to flop backwards in the chair with a sigh. Crossing one leg over the other, she levelled her gaze sharply at Mordred.

“Fine,” she said, with a resigned air. “If Gwen says you can stay, you can stay. But you had best pull your weight, you help with chores, you pay rent and you behave like the perfect guest. _And..._ ” She got to her feet and walked until she was standing nose to nose with Mordred. “...If you miss one more class, you had better be sick, dead, or fighting in the next world war, or I will drag you back home myself and I will get Percy to help me.” Her brother's eyes went wide. “Are we clear on all respects?”

Mordred nodded wordlessly.

*

As they arrived in Merlin's road, Merlin turned to Edouard – who had resumed his disguise for the journey – his questions unable to be kept at bay for much longer. Edouard had honest-to-God shushed him on the Underground, for fear of who might be listening, but Merlin's patience was gone. “You haven't told me where Rose is. Is she... safe?”

“She is,” Edouard answered, a little too quickly. Judging by his expression, he was trying to convince himself more than Merlin. “She... will be here soon.”

“How will she know where to meet you?” Merlin asked, taking his keys out of his coat.

“I'll worry about that. Don't concern yourself with it for now.” Edouard studied the exterior of Merlin's flat, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity in his eyes. “You live alone?”

“I used to. Until this morning,” Merlin replied, a wry smile curving his lips. Edouard tilted his head as he loosened his khaki scarf, following Merlin into the porch. Several items of junk mail and some sort of religious newsletter were crumpled underfoot. The front page of the latter boasted the headline “ _How To Tolerate Arcanes In Your Neighbourhood_ ” in stark, yellow print, and Edouard kicked it outside with an expression of disgust. 

“So who--?”

“Where have you _been_?” Arthur's disgruntled voice rang out, interrupting Edouard. “You've left me here with nothing to do and I think the tele-thingy is broken.” The former king just about staggered into view. Suspicious eyes trained on Edouard, and his hand flexed momentarily at his side where his sword would once have been. “Who's the old man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one, I know. But I didn't want to interrupt the flow by cutting it in half.
> 
> Lyrics from "Remain Nameless" by Florence + the Machine


	6. INTERLUDE III - 1916

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't given up on this, but I struggle with inspiration from time to time. The next full chapter will be coming shortly.

INTERLUDE III

Picardy, France, 1916

“Who you got back 'ome?”

It was one hundred and four years until Arthur rose from Avalon, and the trenches had been made into swamps by the rain. 

Merlin looked up from the dirty bundle of papers and postcards he used as a diary. Most of it was rough notes to be expanded on later – if there was a later – and the parts involving magic were particularly vague, but it occupied him, kept him going. At first he told himself it was merely for Arthur, something to read when he finally came back. He thought Arthur might be proud to know he still fought for their country although Camelot was gone, even if he never collected his medals and honours (such things never changed). Merlin also reasoned that some day, perhaps in more enlightened times, his memoirs could serve some historical purpose. But he realized it was mostly for his own benefit – it kept him sane.

The man addressing him was Private Russell, a youth from a working-class family, with a sweep of reddish-blonde hair and a welcoming face that hid nothing. He was twenty-one years of age, but he appeared about sixteen, a fact that made it hard for Merlin to look at him. He was pale and drawn looking from poor nutrition, having just got over the stomach virus that had been spreading throughout the company, making conditions more unbearable than usual. Still, he had a smile about his lips; he was naïve and patriotic enough that he believed the lies of their superiors, took comfort in their obscenely romantic propaganda. Surely, any day now, the Germans would crumble and if should he die? It would be with grace and dignity. 

Merlin didn't have the heart to correct him, especially if Russell's optimism kept him alive longer. Merlin stopped believing in the romance of war a long time ago. His faith in heroes and hope for righteous leadership had dwindled, particularly now, when the levels of deceit and incompetence would be comical were it not for the needless slaughter. He felt no allegiance or love for the men in the warm, clean offices with spotless uniforms. His place was – as it had always been – in the heat of battle, in the company of soldiers. 

At the present moment, Merlin tilted his head, curious. “Sorry?”

“I never see you write to anyone,” Russell explained, “and you don't 'ave any pictures up.” He gestured at the space around Merlin's head.

Russell had both parents – his father couldn't fight for medical reasons, though Russell never specified what they were – and two younger sisters at home. The whole family was portrayed grinning and laughing in a wrinkled photo that Russell had tacked to the wall. He sat in the centre of the group, with his youngest sister on his knee. One night, when the explosions were particularly deafening, Merlin had glanced over to Russell and found him curled up, sobbing quietly, the photograph pressed against his chest. 

Merlin managed a smile. “No one,” he said, shrugging as if it was nothing, as if the years had made it easier to admit, “I don't have any family and my friends...” He cleared his throat. “Well, my friends are dead.” The benefit of wartime, Merlin thought, was that such a statement did not invite clarification. A pained expression flickered across Russell's face, and Merlin had to glance down again, pretending to read. He couldn't deal with the pity, not from that poor, gullible boy who barely knew what he was there for.

Russell momentarily brightened. “How about a girl? A guy like you must 'ave one of those.”

Merlin almost laughed, both at the phrase _a guy like you_ and at the notion of having someone long-term, to send him letters, to marry when he got back, to hold when the memories of war got too vivid. It wasn't that he didn't crave something like that, and he had certainly shared his bed a lot over the years - it was that the idea of another relationship built on secrets terrified him. How could anyone new even begin to understand the wealth of his experiences? How could he keep such a key part of his identity from someone he loved? He had endured it once, and it had been worth it – or he had thought so, at the time – but that was Arthur. And although there was a purpose to Merlin's secrecy, it had been agonizing, and he had felt such relief that Arthur died knowing the truth, accepting it. 

Merlin looked back at Russell and shook his head. “Nah.”

The kid frowned, leaning back against the wall as if the information wearied him. “So there's no one you're waiting to see?”

Merlin's grip shook slightly on the diary pages.

*

Private Russell was gunned four days later, one of the numerous casualties in the Battle of Albert. Merlin stored his family photograph safe amongst his notes, and when the war ended, he returned Russell's belongings to his family in person. He kept his gaze lowered to his scabbed hands when Russell's sisters started to cry.


	7. INTERLUDE IV - 1879

INTERLUDE IV

Chalon-sur-Saône, France, 1879

It was one hundred and forty-one years until Arthur rose from Avalon, and the winter was like a cold blade. Surfaces were blurred white with snow, the paving stones were slick with ice, and a biting wind stole through the houses. It beat the air out of those unlucky or foolish enough to be outside, challenging the strength of each foundation. 

As Merlin came to, he registered the spitting and crackling of a nearby fire, and the howling wind that rattled the windows like bones. He found himself in a cramped room, the space taken up mostly by the rather uncomfortable, modest bed on which he lay, and the fireplace which lent the only source of light. As the flames wavered, the shadows danced like ghosts on the walls and ceiling. There were two small windows, and a door that appeared to lead directly outside. Although it was closed, cold air was filtering through a gap at the bottom. On the walls were shelves set close together, lined with glass jars, vials of murky liquid and pots labelled in slanted script.

The surroundings, as well as the young man perched on a wooden chair by the fire, were unfamiliar. He was stirring something in a pot, but he glanced up as Merlin shifted slightly. His muscles protested at the movement, his forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat, and despite the scratchy blankets heaped on him, he shivered. 

“It's good to see you awake, Emrys.” Merlin stared at him in silence for a moment – it had been a long time since he was addressed with that name. His companion seemed to have expected his bewilderment, and looked back down at whatever he was preparing. He had curly, black hair that fell over his brow in a way that would irritate Merlin, and eyes that could either have been grey or green. His face was scarred in places, and his nose had been broken badly at some point, but there was an unmistakable gentleness to his demeanour. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

“Where am I?” Merlin muttered, grogginess slurring his speech a little. “Who are you?”

He was faced with a polite smile. “To answer you in reverse, I'm Edouard, and this is my home. Which is in Chalon-sur-Saône, if you're interested.”

Merlin's eyes scanned the room, cautious. Although the young man didn't pose any obvious threat, and Merlin was not in ideal health, he knew he could defend himself were it necessary. He hoped it wouldn't be; he felt unbearably weak and feverish, and he knew from prolonged exposure how unkind the winter weather was. His lips were chapped and his skin was raw and rough as sand. An icy gust shook the door, as if challenging him. 

“How did I come to be here?” he asked, as Edouard approached him with the steaming pot. The smell of stew reached his nostrils and his stomach growled desperately, reminding him how little he had eaten. 

After living for three and a half years in Nice, he had heard whispers of a concentration of sorcerers in Montmartre, and decided to head there.  
What started off as voluntary solitude of the bereaved had shifted into social ineptness, and isolation meant that he didn't have to deal with being recognized by his kind. Yet there were times when even he longed for companionship, and to share his gift with others. Unfortunately, by the time he reached the middle of the country, winter had come on a lot stronger than he had anticipated and accommodation was scarce. He had sought shelter in a small hut by the water, the derelict nature of which often left him open to the elements. He relied on his magic to keep him warm, but he had become ill and even with his powers it was hard to feed and protect himself without attracting unwanted attention. On top of it all, he was both physically and mentally exhausted, and it had weakened his magic.

“I found you unconscious in the street, near the cathedral.” Edouard held out the spoonful of stew he had been allowing to cool. “Seeking spiritual guidance? ...Slowly, or it might come straight back up.” Merlin swallowed carefully, feeling the warmth of the food sink inside him.

“Seeking shelter. The place I'd been staying is filled with snow.” He leaned forward in anticipation of another mouthful. Edouard blew away the steam delicately and extended the spoon. 

“You are welcome to stay here, at least until you are well again. In fact, I insist that you do.” 

Merlin considered for a moment. He couldn't very well return to the hut, certainly not in the state he was in. “Thank you,” he answered eventually, “How did you know who I was?” 

Edouard set the pot down and clasped his hands in his lap. “I always keep an eye out for other magical people. Somewhat literally.” He reached inside the neck of his robe and fished out a pendant that was hanging from a chain around his neck. It was the size of a human eyeball, made of cloudy green glass with a ring of grey metal that was etched with runes and to which the chain was attached. “Most of the time, there is nothing. Then it picked up on you, and when I found you the reaction almost made my head explode. Somehow, I felt sure of who you were.” His lips had been spreading into a gentle smile, but suddenly that smile faded and he looked toward the window, frowning. “Much of the magical community believe you to be dead. You have certainly kept to yourself over the centuries.”

Merlin found the strength to sit up a little, and he wondered if there had been a health potion in the stew. “How old are you? … If you don't mind my asking.”

“I'm 176,” Edouard replied, with a flush of vanity, “youthful in comparison, but I have studied much of your history. Indeed, there has been very little to suggest your existence of late. They say you died with your king, if not literally then spiritually. That he took your strength with him.”

The mention of Arthur coupled with the slight stung Merlin deeply. Indignation warred with hurt, and he chewed his lower lip for a moment. “Is that what you think?” he asked quietly.

Edouard shrugged, and shook his head briefly. “I am merely telling you what people say.”

“And what do _you_ say?”

Edouard looked straight at him, visibly collecting his thoughts. He had a powerful gaze, and in those silent seconds Merlin could feel the strength of the man's power for the first time. It seemed to hold everything in the room together, the very air itself. “I say that grief is every bit as powerful as magic. Particularly when you are grieving for someone your life revolves around.” Edouard leant forward slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I say you fought alone for a long time, were promised something that was denied you, and when Arthur died... you were lost. I do sympathize with you, Emrys, even if I – like many others – regret that you did not attempt to unite the community after the ban on magic was lifted.”

Merlin tilted his head up, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. “It seemed impossible then. Pointless, even. Many of the last great sorcerers and sorceresses were dead...” _Arthur was dead._ “And there was so much hostility, not just between those with magic and without but amongst ourselves.” He swallowed and his throat felt sore and dry. “There was no _community_. The ones I knew best were my enemies. The aftermath of Morgana's attacks - the imprint of fear that she left on Camelot - was felt long after her death. Long after Gwen lifted the ban on sorcery.” He turned his head toward Edouard. “When you say 'they', who do you mean? You told me you hadn't felt the presence of magic in a long time.”

Edouard glanced round at the fire, which was beginning to die out. His eyes glowed momentarily and the flames filled the fireplace, before settling and crackling pleasantly. “Do you know the Order of Guinevere?” he asked, warming his hands.

Merlin rolled over and helped himself to more stew. “I've heard brief mentions of them during my travels across Europe.”

“It's an organization for those with magic, that – from what I ascertain – began sometime in the mid 14th century. They have clandestine groups scattered throughout Europe and Britain. The name itself is due to the fact that Guinevere's legalization of sorcery was one of the most powerful demonstrations of magic acceptance, by a monarch no less. Most of them believe... that Guinevere – not Arthur – was destined to achieve peaceful coexistence between magic and non-magic people. And if she'd had a strong, magical ally, that philosophy would have spread and survived past her death.” He looked pointedly at Merlin.

Merlin returned the gaze somewhat coldly, a sick feeling cutting off his appetite. “So they believe that in the end I _prevented_ us from achieving equality? 

“More that, if you hadn't been mentored so poorly, and if you had managed to recover sooner from Arthur's death, you and Guinevere might have achieved great things. Gained much of the opportunities you believed were lost to you, simply because Arthur was gone.” Edouard lowered his gaze, appearing sheepish. “Some members of the Order have a notably unforgiving outlook on Arthur and his involvement.”

Merlin had to fight down the urge to argue then. He felt protective of Arthur, even now, would fiercely defend him. But Edouard had taken him into his home, and saved his life. It would not do to be rude. “So you're a member of the Order of Guinevere?” he asked finally.

Edouard shook his head, sadly. “No. Not anymore. A decade ago I was part of the faction stationed in Paris, which is the largest within France. Although I was too young to have founded that particular branch, I came to hold one of the most influential posts. Unfortunately, so did a man named Llywelyn. He – unlike myself and most of the group – hated Arthur, and sympathized with Morgana just as much as he did with you, if not more so. Initially, the preoccupation with Morgana didn't cause as much of a stir as you might expect. Due to disparity between the view and treatment of female and male magicfolk, many sorceresses sympathize at least mildly with Morgana, and the Order of Guinevere has always had a strong female presence. However, Llywelyn also seemed to share the destructive and elitist views of Morgana, and other advocates of dark magic. He and I argued loudly and often, with me constantly questioning his motives, his goals. Because our hostility towards each other was _disrupting_ the group, we were both cast out. He made one last, valiant attempt to convert me to his thinking, and naturally I refused.”

Merlin rested his head on his right hand, frowning. It was disturbing to think that such a large group of people had so little faith in Arthur, never mind himself. “Was he very powerful?” he asked, after a few moments, and Edouard nodded gravely. 

“I was too stubborn to let his behaviour slide, but every time we fought, part of me feared for my life.” He looked off to one side, recalling. “There was always the promise of what he could do, hanging in the air... you could almost smell it.”

“Like an oncoming thunderstorm,” Merlin murmured, “but even heavier.” 

“Yes, exactly.”

“So what happened to him?”

Edouard shrugged. “From what I gather, he headed for Switzerland. I haven't heard of or from him since then, which I suppose is reassuring.” He said the last part with a noticeable lack of conviction, brow creasing in subtle worry.

Merlin weighed the words on his tongue before he said them, unsure of the reaction they would get: “Did you ever think about... killing him?”

“Hm. That might have been uncalled for,” Edouard replied, although he didn't seem alarmed or surprised by the question, “given that – as far as I know – he only _spoke_ of dangerous things.”

“But you had that feeling, didn't you?” Merlin pressed, “and you still have it.” Edouard sighed, flexing his hands.

“I thought about it, one way or another. After a particularly heated argument, I stayed up all night researching the best spell with which to do it. Yet, I could never bring myself to. I suppose, in the end, killing someone based on a feeling was just a bit too final for me.” He stood and went over to a cabinet, taking out a slightly dusty, unlabelled bottle half-filled with wine. Edouard swallowed some and eased back into his chair. 

“If his views were so controversial, why did he have a strong place in the group for so long?” 

Edouard tilted his head to one side, considering. “He had... charisma. He was frustratingly likeable and very persuasive. He could dress up his opinions so they sounded like your own, and that tactic fooled a lot of people into thinking he was harmless.” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe that's the real reason I didn't kill him. I liked to believe I was far more astute than the others, that I didn't fall under his spell. But I felt secure enough about him that in over fifty years, I never intentionally gave him so much as a headache. Perhaps subconsciously, I wanted to be wrong. It's only in hindsight that I appreciate just how manipulative he was.” He smiled wryly. “Whether I regret keeping him alive or am relieved by it, depends on the night.”

Merlin thought he understood precisely how Edouard felt. He had experienced something similar with Morgana and Mordred – the desire to trust versus the instinct to destroy. Even when he was keeping Mordred at a distance, he wanted to be wrong about him. Not just for Arthur's sake, but for his own, and Mordred's. Like Merlin himself, Mordred had been unfairly bound by destiny, and he often lay awake wondering what would have happened if he told him about the prophesy. “If he was liked, why did they chuck him too?” Merlin asked, realizing he had been silent for a few minutes.

“I'm not sure,” Edouard replied, “but I assume that, when the moment was upon them, they had just enough intuition to realize what he could be capable of. What they might be tying themselves to. I think that despite his hold over them... no, _because_ of his hold over them, they feared him. Not just what he might do to them, but what they might end up doing for him. Ousting me with him covered that up, made it look less personal.” 

“And do you think he was fooled by that?”

Edouard shook his head. “Judging by the unusual amount of deaths and disappearances in that group over the last ten years, I'd say not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally this would come after the next chapter, but since the content of this is relevant to the plot, I thought it belonged here.


End file.
